


Dragon Age Noir

by ponticle



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Historical, Closeted Character, Cullistair, Eventual Happiness, F/M, Film Noir, Fluff, Homophobia, Implied Sexuality, Love, M/M, Sappy, early thedas is a lot like early earth, happy endings, love in unusual places, omg happy finally, repressed feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-04-08 02:04:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 25,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4286499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponticle/pseuds/ponticle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set in a Film Noir style, Cullen is an ex-cop P.I. with a chip on his shoulder. While investigating a missing son, he meets Alistair Theirin, member of a prominent crime family, and everything begins to unravel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Request

**Chapter 1 - Cullen**

Cullen’s desk was littered with folders, reports, and coffee stains. His notepad was full. It had been a horrible month. When Fiona first wandered into his office, he hadn’t expected it would lead him to the Theirin crime family.

 

* * *

 

“I’m looking for my son,” she had said. Her lip trembled beneath her black veiled hat.

Cullen leaned forward in his worn leather chair and rested his elbows on the desk. “What’s his name?”

That was when she produced the photo. “His name is Alistair,” she began, her red lips whispering the name as if it were a prayer.

Cullen puffed smoke out of the corner of his mouth and gently rested his cigarette on the edge of a coffee cup. The man in the photo had red hair and a boyish smile, but looked to be in his 20s. Cullen appraised his features— _handsome_.

“When was the last time you saw your son?” he asked.

Fiona bit her lip, a blush crossing her face, “I’ve met him before, but he doesn’t know I’m his mother.”

Cullen wasn’t sure what she wanted from him, “Is your son lost or not?”

“It’s _complicated_ ," she breathed

It was half an answer, anyway, thought Cullen.

“This would be a good place to start,” she handed Cullen a shred of paper.

_The Gnawed Noble Tavern_

“Thank you,” she whispered. A single tear rolled down her alabaster cheek as she turned to leave.

 

* * *

 

Cullen should have said no, he knew that. The look in that man’s eyes was something else—something Cullen couldn’t place. Saying no to a face like Fiona’s wasn’t Cullen’s style, though, so he set out the next night.

The street sparkled—coated in recent rain, it reflected in beams of light from the streetlamps. As soon as he got inside, Cullen was inclined to leave. The whole place was full of Ferelden’s finest—known crime bosses, their lackeys, and the working girls who warmed their beds at night. Pulling up the collar of his trench coat, he found an inconspicuous seat at the bar.

“What can I get you?” asked the bartender. Her pouting red lips were overshadowed only by her deep brown liquid eyes.

“Manhattan—straight up,” answered Cullen, setting his hat down on the bar.

“Coming right up,” she winked.

He took an inventory of the room. Each small table was filled with several men whispering through clouds of smoke. Back when he was a cop, he would have had a field day with the characters in here. Lucky for them, he wasn’t a cop anymore.

“Here you go,” said the bartender. “Anything else I can get you?”

“Ever hear of a kid called Alistair?” he asked, sipping his drink. He made a face—it was strong.

Her eyes widened for just a fraction of a second, “Maybe…” she paused, “why are you looking for him?”

“Need to ask him something,” said Cullen evasively. He lit his cigarette and let the smoke drift between them.

Her eyes darted, “I’m probably going to regret this…” she sighed, “He’s over there…” she pointed to a table in the far back of the room. “Don’t tell him I told you…” she warned.

Cullen nodded to her and grabbed his hat.

A deep laugh peeled out as Cullen approached the table. Alistair threw his cards and banged his fist as the others groaned—he had won the game, apparently. As he swept the pot into his lap, he noticed Cullen.

“Who are you?” he eyed Cullen warily.

“Is there somewhere we could talk in private?” asked Cullen, trying to sound nonchalant.

Alistair’s eyes darted around the room briefly. “Boys,” he looked at the assorted goons at the table, “give us a minute, eh?” When they were alone, Alistair pulled out the chair to his left, “sit.”

Cullen didn’t like sitting so close to Alistair—he would feel more in _control_ across the table. Steadying himself, he leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms.

“Well,” began Alistair, “you’ve got my attention. What do you want?” His voice sounded easy and light. It was the voice of a man without fear.

Cullen cleared his throat, “your mother sent me.”

Alistair’s eyes narrowed, “try again—my mother is dead.” He started to stand up.

Cullen put a hand on his forearm to stop him and was surprised at the tautness of his skin and the strength hiding beneath his sleeve. _This man could be dangerous._ Cullen removed his hand like he had touched a hot stove.

“I assure you,” he said more forcefully, “she isn’t... She was in my office yesterday—she gave me this.” He handed Alistair the picture. Cullen realized now that the photograph must have been ten years old—Alistair’s temples were graying and lines around his eyes suggested plenty of dodgy nights spent in bars like this one.

Alistair looked at the photograph, recognition dawning on his face. “I’m not looking for any trouble,” he said suddenly throwing the picture back into Cullen’s lap.

Cullen leaned into the table. Their knees bumped. “I don’t know what happened between you two—frankly, I don’t want to know—just meet with her.”


	2. The Struggle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair has a bad feeling about this investigation and things are getting complicated within the syndicate.

Alistair wanted to stand, but something was keeping him stuck to his seat. He didn’t even know this private investigator’s name, but he could tell there was _something_ about him. He considered the gun on his hip—given to him by an old friend; it was called Starfang. He thought about putting it to good use in this guy's side, but something in his face that told Alistair he did this job for the right reasons.  

"What's your name?" he asked suddenly.

"Cullen," said the man. He extended his right hand and Alistair hesitated before taking it. The skin of his palm was rough—he couldn't have had this job long. Alistair wondered what he _used to_ do.

"You can tell her I'll be here tomorrow night," he said finally. "Same table, 8pm…"

Cullen nodded obligingly and tipped his hat before turning to leave. Alistair watched him walk away with curiosity. There was _something_ about him that made Alistair wonder if taking over his father's business really _was_ in everyone's best interest.

 

* * *

 

Striding up to the bar, he called to the bartender—his oldest confidant.

"Bella," he smirked, "We need to chat…"

Without Bella Surana, Alistair never would have been able to set up this whole operation. When there was a question of leadership, she had insisted that he take over. After all—his brother and father had once run the syndicate. At first he'd been wary, but time had taught him to enjoy his work—most of it, anyway. The most important part was that she was still here.

"What do you need, doll-face?" she smiled at him coyly.

There was a time when that smile would have undone him. He remembered the feeling in his gut like it was yesterday… but times were different now. This job had changed them both.

"That guy found me pretty quickly…" he feigned crossness, "I think _somebody_ in here must have it out for me… you wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

She smiled again, her eyes danced with fire, "I thought you could handle yourself, Al," then more seriously, "Who was he anyway?"

"Some kind of investigator," answered Alistair. He pulled a comb from his breast pocket and raked it through his coiffed hair. He felt shaken, although he never would have admitted it to Bella.

"What did he want?" she probed, leaning across the bar. The branch of her throat caught his eye for a second before he remembered he shouldn't look. It had been a long time since anything like that was allowed.

"He says my mother wants to see me.." he whispered. "Can you believe that?!" He expected her to look surprised, but she didn't. In fact, she looked guilty. "Bella, did you know about this?"

She pressed a finger to his lips, "shhh, doll." Then she pointed with her eyes at the storeroom. "Not here…"

Following her into the storeroom brought back memories Alistair had tried hard to forget. Ten years ago they'd met in those storerooms to find a bit of relief from this dark world. Today they were going in there to find _more_ darkness—the whole world was shrouded these days.

"What do you know?" he asked when they were safely closed in the tiny storeroom.

Alistair paced back and forth as Bella perched herself on a liquor crate.

"Well," she began, "I've known for a while…"

Alistair wasn't surprised she was keeping secrets, but he _was_ a little wounded. He expected this from the thugs he employed, but not from her.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked. His chest felt tight.

"I wasn't sure what good it would do—she isn't part of all this, and we need to _keep it_ that way," answered Bella. She absently pushed deep brown curl out of her eyes.

"Well she's coming here to meet me—tomorrow.." he said, lighting a cigarette.

She looked at him appraisingly through the smoky haze. The single light in the room was swinging slightly, casting a shadow over her sinewy form and sharp features. Her black dress cinched in at the waist, giving way to wide hips and muscular thighs, which were crossed tightly at the knee. He was angry, but she was damn beautiful.

He softened, "Well, what do we do now?" he took two steps closer to her, brushing past her leg.

Bella glanced at the spot where he had touched her. She didn't look fazed.

"…take the meeting," she uncrossed her legs. "…be nice," her knees separated slightly. "…we need to figure out what this PI knows…" Bella gripped Alistair's belt. "…he's our first priority," she smiled dangerously as she pulled Alistair's body into hers.

Her legs gripped his waist and her lips were on his throat before he knew what was happening. His fingers grasped the branch of her throat and he closed his eyes—he was suddenly ten years younger and he _remembered_ her… every whimper and sigh.

She bit him—hard. He blinked to regain focus, fueled by pain and longing, like they so often were. He cupped her face with both hands and pulled it up to meet his own—a question lingered in his eyes. From this angle, her face was entirely in shadow, but her body took center stage in the stream of lamplight.

His fingertips walked up the outside of her thighs until he found the buckles of her garter. He remembered how hard it used to be to undo them—now his fingers were deft.

She sighed and leaned her forehead on his shoulder, "Al, let's not do anything we can't take back…" her voice was muffled and strained, but he let his hands drop to his sides anyway.

Alistair's gut was full of embers, "If that's what's you really want," he eyed her questioningly, his lips curling into a smirk.

"It isn't…" she hopped gingerly off of the crate and went to open the door. Alistair knew that as soon as they were outside everything would be different. They would have to deal with his mother and the bar and the syndicate and—most importantly—that PI.

He wrapped an arm around her thin waist and pulled her body against his—a last-ditch effort to delay the inevitable—but she gripped the door handle and turned it. The spell was broken.


	3. Understanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen and Icis team up to investigate the Theirin Syndicate's power structure.

Cullen woke with a start as his office door slammed. He had fallen asleep at his desk for the third time this week.

“Rutherford!” called Icis.

Icis Lavellan was the youngest chief of police in the history of Ferelden’s department. She had come into the department through happenstance and then risen through the ranks. He admired her, but she scared him.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stifled a yawn, “Chief,” he stood, “to what do I owe the pleasure?”

She wasn’t his boss anymore, but he respected her just the same.

“Some of my guys saw you poking around the Gnawed Noble Tavern the other night,” she barked, “care to explain that to me?”

He walked around to meet her, “I was on a job for a private client,” he leaned against the desk and took a sip of cold coffee.

“Rutherford…” she sounded annoyed, but her face was softening, “I wish you’d come back to the force…” she trailed off.

He knew she meant it. Back when he was a detective, they used to work side by side, but times were different now.

“Chief—” he paused, “…Icis…” He had known her a long time and watched as she grew into this post. When they first met, she was fresh-faced. Today, she was bold and strong—her holster ever-present around her shoulders. Even her white button down and suspenders curved to accommodate her sinew and brawn. She insisted on dressing this way for respect, but Cullen would have respected her just as much in a dress, a clown suit, or a burlap sack.

“You know I can’t come back…” he said finally.

She eyed him, a slight hint of a smile in her violet eyes, “I know that…” then a bit more forcefully, “Just stay out of my way, then, all right?”

She laughed and he smiled despite himself.  She crossed to the chair behind his desk— _his_ chair—and sat. Icis had a way of taking over any situation. Rummaging through his desk drawer, she found the bourbon and two glasses.

“So tell me about the case,” she smiled up at him, pouring.

He obligingly sat in the chair across from her and picked up one of the highball glasses.

“Well, it all started with this little brunette—a mother, looking her for son, supposedly…” he began.

She nodded, understanding flickering between them.

 

* * *

 

“…and that’s how it went down...” he finished. “That Alistair character is a real piece of work…” he mused.

Icis nodded, “We’ve been following his work for the better part of a decade.” She shot back the rest of her bourbon and immediately began pouring another glass. “It’s not really _him_ we’re after, though,” she said suddenly.

Cullen’s interest piqued, “Who _are_ you after, then?” he asked.

“It’s the bartender—Bella—she’s the real brains of the operation,” answered Icis, swallowing again. Cullen hadn’t remembered her drinking quite this much…

“I met her,” he offered.

Icis’ eyes widened, “and?”

“—and she made me a drink?” he smirked.

“Cullen,” said Icis, standing from the chair, “when you go back there, can you do something for me?”

Cullen knew he was going to regret asking, “What?”

“Take me with you?” she smiled.

“How would I explain that to my client?” he asked skeptically.

“Tell her I’m your assistant—your secretary?” she offered.

He smiled. Just thinking about Icis—the _chief_ —playing secretary made him laugh. It was so crazy, it just might work. “All right, consider it done. Meet me there at 8pm sharp,” he opened the door for her as she moved to exit. “And Chief,” he smiled, “wear a dress…”

 

* * *

 

Cullen took a deep breath and stepped out into the night at 7:30. It was already dark and unseasonably cold for this time of year—everything was covered in a thick layer of fog. He pulled his hat down over one eye and marched toward the bar. He wasn’t sure he should have agreed to Icis’ terms, but he wasn’t any good at saying _no_ to her. She had done a bang up job of cleaning up this city and he respected her for it. He caught a glimpse of Fiona in a beam of hazy light from the streetlamp.

“Are you set?” he asked when they got close.

She nodded, “Thank you."

From the darkness, strode Icis—cool and commanding in a bright red dress. Her blonde braids were abandoned in favor of a smooth, flowing style. Cullen knew she was going to break some hearts tonight—before she broke some noses, most likely.

“Sorry I’m late, boss,” Icis used her best impression of an underling—it was hard for her, he could tell.

“That’s all right, Suzie,” he instantly regretted using that name—what kind of a name was that? He cursed himself for not working out these details ahead of time.

Fiona looked confused.

“Don’t worry,” he leaned in toward Fiona, “this is my assistant—always better to travel in groups to a place like this.” He smiled encouragingly.

Fiona nodded and Cullen opened the door.

Inside, the bar was as it had been the night before—flush with gambling, smoke, and booze. He pointed through the haze to Alistair’s table—he was right on time.

Cullen slid a chair back from the table and Fiona smiled at him obligingly. She peered across the table at her son from under that same veiled hat—it was a statement piece, apparently.

“Alistair,” she looked like she might cry.

He leaned forward in his chair to look at her face. Cullen was left standing, frozen, next to Icis. He wasn’t sure if he needed to stay next to Fiona or not. Certainly, this was where his job _should_ end—he found her son and reunited them—but he wasn’t sure she was safe here with _him_.

Fiona turned and answered his question without him having to ask, “Give us a moment, please.”

Cullen nodded and Icis took his arm as they walked toward the bar. This was Icis’ goal anyway. He pulled the chair out for her, still looking over her shoulder at Alistair and Fiona. He wished he could hear what they were talking about.

“You’re back again already?” said Bella, leaning over the bar toward him.

His face felt flushed—he hated to be recognized.

“Manhattan, right?” asked Bella.

He mustered a weak smile as he sat next to Icis. His hand lingered around her shoulders protectively until she kicked him under the bar.

"And what can I get for you?" asked Bella, looking at Icis. When they made eye contact danger flickered between them for a fraction of a second.

"Hendricks and tonic…with a lime…" said Icis nonchalantly.

"Coming right up," said Bella. She had already started theatrically mixing with the style of a dancer. "So what brings you two in?" she asked casually.

Cullen knew it _wasn't_ casual, though. Now that he knew she was at the head of the syndicate, he could see how the pieces fit together. From behind that bar, Bella was perfectly poised to know everything, but stay completely inconspicuous—safe—while Alistair took the brunt of the social ire that came with being a crime lord.

"It's a nice little operation you've got here," said Icis, her eyebrow raised. Her words were innocuous, but Cullen could tell it was a threat.

Bella turned to face Icis straight on, her hands still adroitly working on their drinks.

"Well," Bella smiled, "it's just a dingy old gin joint, but it's ours…"

Cullen could see the gears turning in Icis' brain—she had gotten Bella to admit two things: she was somehow involved in the running of this place _and_ she wasn't alone. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

 

* * *

 

Over his left shoulder, Cullen suddenly heard a scream. In the time it took him to turn his head toward the noise, all hell broke loose. He and Icis were on their feet in seconds. Icis ripped open the hem of her dress to reveal a gun on her thigh. Cullen stepped in front of her and pulled a table onto its side.

"Get down!" he called.

Icis' training kicked in and they were shoulder to shoulder behind the table before he even really knew what they were up against. Bella had disappeared behind the bar when the fight first broke out and he couldn't see her now.

Icis seemed to be considering it too, her eyes were darting back and forth between the bar and the crowd.

"Shit—" said Icis, "I think she planned this—she made us and then made an escape."

Cullen set his jaw, "We can talk about this later, right now, we need to figure out a way _out_ of here… and we need to take Fiona with us."

Icis looked annoyed.

"She's my client! I'm not going to leave her here…" yelled Cullen over the growing hum of the fight.

"…fine!" yelled Icis. Peeking over the top of the table, Icis closed one eye and aimed her gun at no one in particular. She moved its barrel until she found a shock of red hair. She pulled the trigger. Cullen watched, somewhat horrified, as Alistair growled in pain and clutched his right forearm.

"Icis!" yelled Cullen, "what the hell are you thinking?"

"We need a diversion…" she yelled, jumping out from behind the table and grabbing Fiona's arm on the far side of the room. "Let's go!!!"

Cullen followed three steps behind, still mad. He was starting to worry about Icis. When they worked together, she wasn't the type to have three drinks before noon and she certainly wasn't the type to shoot people at random… something was wrong.


	4. Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair is bleeding, but he's more concerned about Cullen's tone.

"Hey!" yelled Alistair. In the alley outside the bar, his shadow stretched unnaturally as though grasping the people he was chasing.

Cullen turned slowly, his body tense.

Alistair's arm was bleeding into a puddle on the ground. Its color changed from red to purple in the moonlight. In a moment that seemed to last indefinitely, the two men stared at each other. It was a challenge, but Alistair thought it might also be something else—something he couldn't quite put a finger on. Since their first meeting, Alistair had wondered about Cullen. That feeling was palpable in his gut again.

"Come back here," said Alistair coldly. He expected Cullen to turn and keep running, but he puzzlingly marched back down the alley toward him. Alistair tried to keep the scowl on his face, but he could feel the corners of his mouth turning up—an involuntary smile. 

"Listen," said Cullen when they were face to face, "The first time I came down here, I didn't know much…" he pushed a hand through his hair in a way that Alistair did himself, "—but today I know some things… let's go somewhere we can talk."

Alistair knew he should argue, but his curiosity had gotten the better of him.

"My office is just across town," said Cullen.

 

* * *

 

The office was small and dingy, but Alistair liked its smell. It was a mixture of ink and leather. The typewriter on the desk looked well-loved. He mused that Cullen must do a lot of writing—for pleasure maybe?

"Sit," said Cullen pointing at the metal chair in front of the desk.

"So what is this all about?" asked Alistair.

Cullen looked at his arm apprehensively. Alistair followed his gaze and realized he was still bleeding heavily and that his arm was nearly completely numb below the elbow.

"Shit," said Alistair under his breath, "I think the bullet may still be in there…"

Cullen crossed the desk with a bottle of whiskey, a pair of rusty pliers, and filthy bandages from his desk drawer.

"This is going to hurt," he warned. Alistair noticed that his eyes were amber—almost red in the dim lighting of the office.

"Arrrrhhh!" growled Alistair. Cullen had ripped the bullet out in one swift movement and pushed the rags down hard over the open wound.

"Keep pressure on that," he cautioned.

Alistair took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. The internal ripping and shifting had left him seeing spots and hearing white noise. He really didn't want to pass out in front of Cullen, _a veritable stranger_ —it seemed weak.

Cullen returned to his own side of the desk and took a swig of the whiskey he’d used as antiseptic.

"You want some?" he offered Alistair the bottle.

Alistair shook his head. The last thing he needed right now was alcohol—his head was swimming already.

Cullen leaned into another desk drawer and pulled out a needle and thread.

“Take that off for a second?” Cullen peered into Alistair’s wound—it was deep.

“On second thought, I’ll take that drink,” said Alistair, breathing raggedly.

"So Alistair," began Cullen, "tell me about the bartender…" Cullen made the first stitch and Alistair felt lancinating pain through his arm and chest. He rested his elbow on the desk and leaned in for support.

"—she makes drinks?" he smirked and felt his left dimple grow deep, despite the throbbing pain.

Cullen didn't look impressed. "Listen, we know that she's the brains of the whole operation…" He looped the thread through another piece of shredded skin and Alistair watched a string of red clots follow the needle out the other side.

"…now maybe you just got in over your head?” continued Cullen, “If that's what happened, I know people down at the precinct… we could help you get out of this…" he offered.

Alistair scowled, "yeah? Like the one who put this bullet in my arm? I could do without that kind of _help_ …"

Cullen sighed, his face showed visible frustration. Alistair thought he might be saner than any of the cops in this town, which begged the question—why wasn't _he_ a cop?

He couldn't help himself, "Why aren't you working with the department now?"

"We're here to talk about you…" said Cullen darkly, finishing the last of the stitches. He bit the thread close to the surface of the skin and Alistair felt a chill run up his spine at Cullen’s cool breath.

“But you were before?” asked Alistair.

Cullen’s mouth turned into a sneer, “…a lifetime ago.”

Alistair noticed that his fingers were beginning to feel tingly and warm. His head was beginning to clear.

“What do you want out of this—really?” asked Alistair, feeling brave now that he could move his fingers.

Cullen inspected his work by tugging at the skin around Alistair’s stitches and sighed, “I just want the _actual_ criminals to end up in jail—call me old-fashioned…”

Alistair rolled his eyes—where did this guy get off being so high and mighty. He resented people who tried to delineate good from bad. From where he stood, everything looked grey.

“I’m serious,” said Cullen suddenly.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that…” said Alistair, pulling his sleeve down over his newly repaired arm. “Listen, Bella and I have been through a lot together and she’s good at what she does, so just leave her out of this. If you have questions for _me_ , you can find me at the bar…” He stood to leave.

 

* * *

 

The whole walk home he replayed their conversation. Throughout his time running the syndicate they had gotten themselves into and out of scandalous situations, but this one had rattled him more than the others. _He_ had rattled him. _He_ was unusual—a moral bright spot in a sea of dark intentions.

Alistair slipped in the back door of the bar and ran directly into Bella who was crouching behind some crates.

“Al!” she yelled.

“Bella, you scared me,” he clutched his chest and exhaled sharply when he saw her.

“Where the hell have you been?” she grabbed his arm and he winced painfully.

“I’ve been _dealing with_ the P.I…” he said through gritted teeth.

Her eyes were wide, “What happened?”

“He wanted to know all about _you_ ,” said Alistair.

He watched Bella’s face contort into a calculated smile.

“Can you go back?” she asked.

“Why?” asked Alistair. His arm was killing him and he hated all this artifice.

“Because we need to find out what he knows—why he’s after me,” answered Bella. Her face was half in shadow, but Alistair could tell she was plotting.

Alistair sighed, “tomorrow…”


	5. The Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen can't necessarily explain his feelings about Alistair, but he knows something is off.

“Hello?” answered Cullen. The ringing had broken his train of thought and he was annoyed.

“Yes, hi…” said a strange voice on the other end of the phone. “This is Alistair—Theirin.”

_How many Alistairs are there in this city?_ Cullen laughed to himself at the absurdity.

“So… what do you want?” asked Cullen gruffly.

“—I need to come by,” said Alistair quickly.

Cullen leaned into the desk and put the phone in the crook of his neck as he lit his cigarette. “I suppose that’s fine…”

“Is it?” asked Alistair. He sounded surprised. The more Cullen talked to Alistair, the less believable he was as head of the city’s most powerful crime family.

Cullen lifted his wrist to look at his watch, “Give me an hour. I’ll see you at three.” He hung up.

 

* * *

 

Outside, the sky had opened up. It was raining in cold sheets and Cullen’s sole window was beginning to leak. This building was a wreck, but it was his. Back when he was a cop, he had used the whole thing as living space, but now he slept upstairs and worked on the first floor—sometimes he slept down there too, he admitted to himself. He toyed with the idea of calling Icis—this whole thing with Alistair had him vexed. He wanted to get her opinion on why this bastard wanted to come to his office—twice in two days. At the same time, he was concerned about getting too close to her considering recent events. Her behavior in the bar was troubling; he had never known her to be so reckless. As he examined his thoughts, he realized there was something else too—something he wouldn’t have admitted out loud. He wanted to see Alistair _alone_. He didn’t know why, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that if anyone else were there, the dynamic would be different. He felt internally itchy—restlessness was spreading through his chest. He stood suddenly, trying to think of ways to avoid this feeling. He decided cleaning was his best option. Although Cullen was very organized, his desk was perpetually messy-looking. He had a system to it, though. Reports went on the top left corner, contracts on the bottom right, coffee or scotch in the middle, depending on the time of day. He smiled to himself—his life was just a series of beverages.

 

* * *

 

An hour later there was a knock on the door. Cullen looked through the frosted glass and recognized Alistair’s silhouette. Cullen’s heart was inexplicably in his throat. He took a moment to make eye contact with his own reflection in the dirty mirror behind the door. He breathed out audibly through his nose and squared his jaw.

“Come in,” he said in his lowest possible voice when he opened the door.

Alistair tipped his hat and walked past Cullen. Just as Cullen was about to close the door, Bella stepped out of the shadows and winked at him as she crossed the threshold. Cullen instantly wished he had called Icis. If he had known Alistair was going to bring _her_ , he certainly would have liked the backup. In the time it took Bella and Alistair to sit down, Cullen had a highly developed conversation with himself that went something like this: _why do I want to be alone with him? What does it matter if Bella is here, isn’t that a good thing? Why do I care? What is happening to me? …I need a drink._

Sitting at the desk, Cullen regained his composure and pulled the scotch out from his bottom left desk drawer along with three glasses. He felt Bella’s eyes on him as he poured.

“So Mister Rutherford,” she began, “I heard you’ve been looking into me…”

Cullen swallowed hard—she was certainly _direct_.

Alistair shifted uncomfortably in his chair. Cullen wished he knew what Alistair's gestures meant. He realized now that since their first interaction, he hadn’t been able to get a good read on what Alistair was thinking based on his face, his body, or his movements. He was some kind of mystery.

“It’s not so much _me_ …” said Cullen evasively.

Alistair leaned toward Bella in a way Cullen thought of as protective. Cullen stifled a huffing noise between his nose and the glass of amber liquid. He hoped she didn’t notice.

“Well,” began Bella again, “your gal pal, Icis, certainly has it out for me… care to explain that?” she leaned forward aggressively and put an elbow on the left edge of his desk. Cullen was glad he had moved the papers that usually lived there.

“Listen,” interrupted Alistair, “This guy doesn’t work for _her_ —he’s a free agent.” Alistair looked at Cullen with a question in his eyes and Cullen nodded his agreement. “Bella, maybe he can help us?”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed. _What could they possibly need help with?_

Bella sighed, “I suppose… we need your guarantee that nothing will leave this room, though…” she looked at Cullen with such intensity that he wanted to blink.

“That’s a promise I can make,” said Cullen. He took his work very seriously, after all.

Bella looked at Alistair and nodded, “tell him.”

Alistair leaned forward in his chair, putting his face just a foot from Cullen’s. Cullen noticed the tiny lines around his eyes that gave away his age—the lines that weren’t there in that first picture he’d seen. His silvering temples made him look hardened. He wondered if those were the result of age or stress—he guessed the latter.

“It’s like this,” began Alistair, tossing back his drink, “Since we came to this city we’ve known something wasn’t right…” he paused.

Cullen interrupted, “Yeah? What tipped you off? The giant rift between this side of the tracks and the other?” he scoffed.

Alistair rolled his eyes, “It’s not that…” He cleared his throat, “We know Chief Lavellan cleaned that up as best she could… wish I could say the same for my arm,” he muttered and rubbed where the stitches were still freshly bandaged. “Anyway… we’re talking about something else—something more sinister.”

Bella rolled her eyes. She obviously thought Alistair wasn’t explaining this succinctly enough. “It’s like this…” she put a hand on Alistair’s thigh, but it wasn’t affectionate. “There is a new upstart in town—goes by Hawke…”

Cullen felt his mouth go dry. _Could it be the same Hawke?_

“…I met her once, but only for a second and that was years ago,” said Alistair.

“Back in Kirkwall, she was—” Bella began to explain.

Cullen cut her off, “—I know her."

Bella and Alistair both perked up in their seats across the desk.

“I was in Kirkwall when it all _happened_ …” said Cullen. He had spent years trying to forget, but that time would be forever etched into his mind. “It was before I ever met the Chief… I was working with a different outfit then…” he searched the corners of the room, trying to choose the correct words for how to explain this.

“You saw the explosion?” asked Alistair. His eyes were wide and he now had both elbows on the desk, leaning in.

“I was _there_ ,” said Cullen. “I never expected it from Hawke… never expected her to go along with her arsonist boyfriend or start a rebellion either… none of it.”

“Well, she’s coming here now—they both are, I think,” said Bella.

Cullen leaned back in his desk chair and ran his hands through his hair, eventually letting his fingers interlace behind his neck. This was _certainly_ bad news, but he wasn’t sure what his role in this could possibly be.

“So what do you want from me?” asked Cullen, still partially reclining.

“We need to pool our resources and find a way to head her off before she starts another uprising,” said Bella. Her eyes were cold and Cullen could see the tension in the muscles of her jaw.

“We can’t go to the Chief with this—naturally, we can’t work with the department…” added Alistair. “But I thought—maybe—you’d be able to see that this is something that affects all of us?” He paused, “Can you? See it…Cullen?”

It was the first time he’d heard Alistair say his name and he felt his body respond involuntarily. He hoped he wasn’t blushing.

“I see it,” he sat up straighter and absently rubbed his palm across his brow.

Alistair's boyish smile made Cullen feel unreasonably happy from across the desk. “So what can I do?” asked Cullen, kicking himself internally.

 

* * *

 

For the next hour, Bella and Alistair explained their plans to unite the largest crime families and business owners in the district in order to force Hawke and company to back down, but Cullen barely heard a word. Something happened every time Alistair's mouth moved—Cullen got swept away in the curve of his lips and the resonance of his laugh. When they finally left his office, he felt raw. Turning off the light, he sighed and resigned himself to dealing with the implications of this plan another day.


	6. The Stakeout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After agreeing to work together, Alistair accompanies Cullen on a stakeout and runs into an old acquaintance in the unlikeliest of places.

Alistair felt nervous when he saw the black Chrysler pull up outside—he had never been on a stake out before. He squared his jaw and took a deep breath to steady himself before approaching the passenger’s side door. Cullen’s eyes were covered by the brim of his hat, but the scar on his upper lip was pulled up into a tense sneer.

“Get in,” he said.

Alistair looked surreptitiously down the alley both ways before swinging the door open.  “Where to?” he asked, as he slid into the black leather bench seat.

“Other side of town,” answered Cullen darkly.

Alistair stared out the window and let his eyes lose focus. He felt Cullen’s presence heavily beside him. The street lamps strobed between the buildings as they accelerated. Cullen drove a stick shift expertly, Alistair noted.

“What?” bristled Cullen, breaking the silence.

Alistair realized he was staring at Cullen’s hand between them.  “Nothing… I just… never learned to drive as well as…” He brushed the back of Cullen’s hand on the shifter. “…as well as you can…” he finished, swallowing hard.

Cullen kept his eyes on the road, but Alistair could see the muscles in his neck and jaw flex.

Alistair pulled his hand away—this was the second time in the last forty eight hours he made physical contact with Cullen, despite his best intentions.

Two blocks later Cullen cut the headlights and slowed the car to a near-silent stop.

“Why are we stopping here?” asked Alistair.

“My contacts say this is where Hawke hangs out… with her beau…” said Cullen.

There was a laugh in his voice. Alistair wasn’t sure what was funny.

“So what do we do now?” asked Alistair.

“Now we wait,” answered Cullen.

He put the car in park and turned the key back in the ignition before reaching across Alistair’s lap to open the glove compartment. Cullen’s arm brushed past Alistair’s thigh. Alistair shivered—Cullen smelled like oakmoss and elderflower.  Closing the compartment, Cullen turned to look up at Alistair and, for a second, they breathed the same air.

“Take these,” said Cullen.

He leaned back to the far side of the car and handed Alistair a pair of battered binoculars. Cullen seemed nervous—he kept running his fingers through his hair and rubbing the back of his neck. Alistair had noticed these nervous ticks before. Yesterday, when he and Bella were in Cullen’s office, he thought Cullen was sweating.

“Are you okay?” asked Alistair suddenly. His blatant curiosity was surprising, even to him.

Cullen side-eyed him, “Of course I’m okay… what do you even mean?”

Alistair realized he didn’t have any follow-up questions and coughed to fill the awkward silence that was falling around them. He squinted out into the hazy night and tried to look contemplative. Suddenly, he spotted a silhouette in the distance. A woman paused on the sidewalk, looked both ways from under the brim of her hat and ran to the alley behind the club. Alistair couldn’t see her face, but her body language spelled trouble. Something about her seemed familiar, but Alistair couldn’t place it.

“Hey,” he whispered, suddenly nervous, “did you see that?”

“I saw her,” said Cullen. He was already grabbing his hat from the dashboard and stashing his keys.

“Who was that?” asked Alistair, trying to close to door quietly behind him. Something in her sinew and strut… something he couldn’t reconcile.

“I don’t know,” said Cullen, “but the way she looked, she can’t be up to anything good.”

* * *

 

Inside the club, the air was thick with smoke. Unlike his own establishment, this place was set up around a long stage in the middle of the room. The scattered tables were filled with men, apparently waiting for their headliner. Alistair wondered what sad creature would take that stage in the coming moments. This life had certainly hardened him, but not to the level where he enjoyed seeing the disenfranchised pander to audiences of thugs. He followed Cullen to a table just to the left of the stage and put his hat on the table. Cullen left his low over his eyes and Alistair wondered if he should have done the same.

“Do you see her?” asked Alistair quietly.

“Not yet,” said Cullen. He scanned the crowd nonchalantly from under the brim of his fedora. “But she’s here… I can feel it.”

“How will you know her once you see her?” asked Alistair, “she was completely in shadow.”

Just then, the band picked up and the stage lights brightened. The crowd turned as one to face the stage where a woman’s figure emerged from the curtains. Before Alistair could see her face, he felt her presence—she dripped of sex and power. When she emerged from the shadows, Alistair’s mouth went dry.

“Cullen,” he gripped the other man’s arm desperately, “we need to get out of here—now.”

Cullen scowled at him and shook his arm free, “What are you on about, Al?”

“We can’t be here,” stammered Alistair. His mind was racing. What was she doing in this club… of all the gin joints in all the world…? “Cullen, I know her.”

The music swelled and her deep mezzo floated over the audience like a wave of pure divinity. Alistair hated to admit how talented she was—she always had been. She bewitched any audience—any man—with that voice.

“Who is she?” asked Cullen, his eyes suddenly wide. He was clearly caught in her siren song too.

“Morrigan,” answered Alistair. His voice was hoarse and his heart was racing. Before he could explain this to Cullen, Morrigan leaned over their table, her voice still ringing. If she hadn’t spotted him outside, she certainly saw him before she emerged from the curtain. Alistair wanted to look away, but his body was numb—frozen in place.

Morrigan reached down and wrapped a silken scarf around Cullen’s neck, pulling him toward the stage. This was a part of her act Alistair always found ridiculous, but today he felt something like rage bubbling under the surface. He wanted to swat her hands away, but before he moved an inch, she was retreating toward the curtain and the crowd was on its feet, giving her a standing ovation.

Cullen leaned in, “who was that and what’s your connection?” he asked breathlessly.

Alistair found himself resenting Cullen’s blush and bluster. “She used to work in Bella’s outfit—she traveled with us about ten years back, before the syndicate took off.”

Cullen’s eyes narrowed. He leaned in impossibly close to Alistair’s face. “Why are you so jumpy?”

“We parted on…” Alistair swallowed, “...strange terms.”

Cullen rolled his eyes, “spit it out, Al.”

Alistair wondered transiently why Cullen thought it was all right to call him ‘Al’—they barely knew each other.  “She has a kid...okay?” he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes with his palms.

“Yeah?” said Cullen, nonplussed, “so?”

“He’s my kid, Cullen…” said Alistair.

The space between them seemed to stretch as the color drained from Cullen’s face.

A girl with a cigarette box was suddenly standing at their table. “Gents, the Witch of the Wilds requests your presence backstage… you must have made quite an impression,” she said to Cullen, with a wink.

Alistair huffed and rolled his eyes.

“What does she want with us?” asked Cullen, warily.

“You’ll have to ask her yourself,” said the cigarette girl.

Cullen stood and adjusted his hat—a move that Alistair knew was more performance than habit.

“If it doesn’t work out in there,” she whispered into Cullen’s collar, “I’ll be here all night.” She smiled and winked again before disappearing into the crowd.

Alistair felt a surge of inexplicable jealousy again, but managed to suppress it. They were going to see Morrigan, after all. He needed to settle.

“If you’re done flirting…” he said.

Cullen smiled, “for now.” He gestured for Alistair to lead the way backstage.

* * *

 

“What in the hell are you doing here, Al?” asked Morrigan.

She was powdering her nose at her dressing table. She didn’t turn or look at them directly, but Alistair could feel her eyeing his reflection in the lighted mirror.

“I could ask you the same question,” he answered. Evasiveness was their shared lexicon.

“Our agreement was that you wouldn’t look for me,” she said, still not looking up.

“Well, I didn’t…” he stammered, “or I wasn’t anyway… but now that I’m here, I’ve got some questions.” He saw Cullen take two steps closer to him in his periphery. It made him feel braver. “Where is he, Morrigan? Has he grown up in places like this?”

Morrigan finally turned. Her yellow-green eyes flashed fury and eventually landed on Alistair. “Al, you don’t get to lecture me on my parenting skills… not after…” she trailed off.

Alistair shifted uncomfortably. He could still feel Cullen on his left, but he felt embarrassed now, instead of brave.

“Morrigan,” Alistair let his shoulders slump in submission, “can I see him?”

Morrigan looked at him through slitted eyes. He thought there was an even chance that she would acquiesce or call for security.

Cullen cleared his throat, “excuse me, Miss…” the miss word sounded like an afterthought, but a well-placed one. “Who were you running from? In the alley out back?”

Alistair turned, his eyes wide. He transiently thought Morrigan might turn Cullen into a toad.

“It has to do with a new outfit in town…” she said evasively.

Alistair was surprised to hear her speaking to Cullen so easily. Apparently it was only with him that she was full of contempt.

“...and just who are you?” asked Morrigan. She tilted her face up until it was fully illuminated in the backstage lights.

Alistair shivered. She was beautiful… and dangerous.

“Rutherford,” said Cullen. “I’m working a job in this town. Bella and Alistair dragged me into it, and there are a lot of threads to follow. I have a feeling you might be the one to tie up everything up into a nice little bow.” He took off his fedora for the first time since the car. Alistair admired the way his curls stayed intact even under a hat.

Morrigan smiled in a way that made Alistair shiver again. “Well, if you’re in bed with these goons, you’re going to need my help… that’s for sure.”

She turned back to the mirror and lit a cigarette on a long holder. The smoke floated up between Morrigan and her reflection—temporarily obscuring her expression from Cullen and Alistair behind her.

“Al,” she said suddenly, emerging from the smoke, “Kieran isn’t ready to meet you.” Her voice was definite.

Alistair’s heart sank—hearing his son’s name stung like poison.

“—but he may be in time… let’s fix your little...problem…” she looked Cullen up and down hungrily, “and we’ll talk.”

Morrigan crossed to Cullen and extended her satin-gloved hand. Cullen took it and bowed low to kiss the knuckles. They apparently had an agreement.

 

 


	7. Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen looks back on the last six months and has an epiphany. Morrigan provides key pieces to the puzzle. Alistair is more than meets the eye.
> 
> SFW, except for some implied sex. Originally Inspired by @TheRealMcGee's beautiful Noir art. (featured on her tumblr and attached to my tumblr post of this piece, see @ponticle) Also, if you listen to 1940s jazz while you're reading this, it makes for a really nice experience. :)
> 
> Feel free to comment below. I love chatting with anyone about the plot or writing or whatever. :)

* * *

 

**Cullen**

 

It struck Cullen as odd that Alistair let Morrigan take the front seat without question. For a crime lord, Alistair didn't seem particularly ruthless. And now he had a son? The more he learned about Alistair, the more Cullen agreed with Icis—Bella was the _real_ power player here.

“Where to?” asked Cullen, turning the ignition.

“Wherever it is you normally work,” said Morrigan imperiously.

Cullen huffed, but didn't argue. The silence on the way to his office was thick with tension. Morrigan lit another cigarette and rolled her window down slightly to allow the smoke egress. Cullen didn't normally allow anyone to smoke in his car, but he was picking his battles. He was actually far more interested in Alistair, seated awkwardly in the middle back seat. His lips were moving--very slightly--and his eyes were darting. It looked like he was having a tense conversation with someone in his mind. Cullen wondered how much more pressure this kid could take before he cracked up completely. Cullen suddenly felt ashamed—isn't that what _he_ had done? _Cracked up_.

 

* * *

 

**6 months earlier**

“Rutherford!” yelled Icis. “Snap the hell out of it!”

Cullen struggled to open his eyes. Icis was shaking him furiously. _Where am I?_ He thought transiently.

“Rutherford!” she yelled again, “how many did you take? Five? _Ten!_?” She looked at him pointedly. “You don't remember?”

She suddenly dropped his shoulders. He fell back onto the floor and was suddenly dizzy.

“Just a few…” He mumbled.

“Damn it, Cullen,” muttered Icis.

Even in his current state he could tell Icis was furious. She never used his first name without provocation. He tried to steady himself by dragging his back against the desk, but the room was spinning.

“And how much of this scotch have you had?” she continued yelling. “Was this full earlier?!” She held up an almost-empty bottle.

Cullen blinked, trying to keep down the bile he tasted.

“Cullen,” said Icis, more softly now. “You've gotta get clean.” She kneeled in front of him and put her hands on either side of his face. “I can't do it for you… But I _can_ insist that you go _away_ for a while…”

Cullen tried to argue, but his words came out raspy and garbled.

“—you're off the job… Effective immediately.” Said Icis with a definitive tone. “Get yourself out of this and we can talk.”

Cullen reached a hand around her waist as she tried to stand. It was a feeble attempt and she just looked like she pitied him. _An utter failure_. She bit her bottom lip and pulled the brim of her hat low over her eyes as she disentangled herself from his grasp.

“Don’t do that,” said Icis seriously. She straightened and hooked her thumbs under her suspenders. “Give me your badge,” she demanded.

Cullen looked up at the desk over his head and tried to focus enough to grab his gun and badge, but she pre-empted him.

“On second thought,” said Icis, holstering the gun, “I’ll just take these myself.”

Icis stepped over Cullen’s outstretched legs on her way out, careful not to actually crush him. Cullen wished she _would_ step on him, though. He wished she’d put him out of her misery--he would have deserved it. He’d sworn to serve and protect, but he’d ended up letting everyone down. He was a slug.

Icis slammed the door and Cullen didn’t try to stop her. When he couldn’t hear her steps anymore, he dropped onto his left side and let his cheek rest against the cold wood floor.

 

* * *

 

The next time he opened his eyes it was morning. Cullen pushed himself upright and nearly fell over as his vision danced with black spots. He exhaled in a growl and and squished his eyes in his palms. He breathed with effort, trying to clear the haze.

“Okay,” he said aloud, “it’s time. I’ve got to get clean.”

Appraising himself in the mirror, he realized his left eye was rimmed in black. He couldn’t remember how it happened— _typical_.

Cullen busied himself with tidying his office. Of course, it wouldn’t be an office much longer. What use would he have for an office now that he didn’t wear a uniform? He caught a glint of gold in his periphery—the shiny nameplate Icis had given him during his first week was illuminated in a beam of intrusive sunlight. “Detective Rutherford.” It seemed to be mocking him now—a reminder of the man he used to be.

There was a knock at the door. Cullen looked up reflexively. The shadow of a tall man in a fedora shone through the frosted glass. Cullen sighed and turned the brass knob.

“Hello?” said the man. He had big brown eyes and freckles across his nose.

“Yeah, hi,” said Cullen hurriedly. His head was still spinning—he didn’t even try to keep the man in focus. Instead, he just looked blankly ahead.

“Um..” said the man. “Can I come in?” He slumped his shoulders and looked up at Cullen from under the brim of his hat. “I heard you’re the person to see for… _help_?” He paused and looked both ways down the hallway, “...you see, I’ve gotten myself into quite a mess…”

“Yeah, listen, kid,” interrupted Cullen, “I’m out of the business. I can’t help you.”

“Oh…” said the man. He pulled his hat off and smoothed his reddish hair. Dejectedly, he let his head drop.

Cullen sighed again. He was too tired for this. “If you don’t mind,” he gestured down the hallway and the man silently turned around, fixing his hat in place once again.

Cullen didn’t even wait to see where the man went. He slammed the door, breaking the frosted glass in the process. A spider of broken glass cut through his name. The R and the U were separated.

 

**Back in the Car**

“Hey!” yelled Morrigan.

Cullen swerved. He had been so deep in thought he hadn’t noticed the oncoming headlights. In an overcorrection, he slammed on the breaks, but a bit too late. The car careened off the road toward a ditch and was finally stopped by a lamppost.

“What the hell?” said Morrigan, spitting blood.

Cullen blinked. In his dazed confusion, he turned to look at Alistair. He was lying motionless in the back seat. Light from the damaged streetlamp above them illuminated his face. That’s when Cullen saw it—reddish hair, freckles across his nose. A chill crawled up Cullen’s spine. _This_ was the problem all along—Cullen had already met Alistair. No wonder their interactions had been so odd. It begged a question: why hadn’t Alistair explained the situation earlier? What was his angle?

Cullen pushed the driver’s side door open with effort and went around to the back of the sedan. He crawled in past Alistair’s legs and leaned over his face.

“Hey,” he called sternly. He slapped the sides of Alistair’s face and shook his shoulders to no avail. “Wake up!” he yelled.

Morrigan opened the other door near Alistair’s head and looked down at the two of them imperiously.

“I’ve got this,” she said quietly.

Cullen squinted at her, but didn’t argue.

Morrigan slid into the seat next to Alistair and rested his head on her lap.

“Hand me that bag from the front seat,” she commanded.

Cullen grabbed it and threw it at Morrigan.

She rolled her eyes before removing a small vial of liquid. She uncapped it and waved it beneath Alistair’s nose. He instantly began coughing and and sat up violently. Unfortunately, Cullen didn’t move back fast enough and they collided painfully.

“Maker!” coughed Alistair, “what the hell was that?”

“No need to thank me, Al,” said Morrigan, straightening her dress.

Cullen realized he still hadn’t moved—his legs were pinning Alistair in place; their chests almost touched. _What was he waiting for, exactly?_

“Gonna let me out of here?” asked Alistair, his eyebrow raised.

Cullen fumbled and hit his head on his way out of the car.

“Are you all right?” called Morrigan, once the three of them were standing around the ruined car.

“Yeah,” said Cullen, “but the car sure isn’t.”

“Why did we crash?” asked Alistair, rubbing his head.

“Because your buddy here was daydreaming,” said Morrigan, gesturing toward Cullen.

Cullen straightened and gritted his teeth. She wasn’t _wrong_.

“Well,” said Alistair, looking down the darkened street, “we can’t be more than a mile from town… I could walk down there and find us some help.”

Cullen wanted to argue, but it seemed as good a plan as any.

Morrigan nodded and Alistair began to walk away.         

* * *

 

When Alistair’s silhouette was little more than a speck in the distance, Cullen turned to Morrigan.

“What did Alistair _do_?” he asked, “I mean… before he led the syndicate…”

“Nothing,” she answered. There was a hint of a sneer pulling on her lips. “He used to be a nobody—before Bella.”

Cullen leaned back into the side of the car and kicked dirt with his heel. There were too many threads to follow. He needed some answers.

“Tell me what happened,” he said seriously.

“Bella found Alistair ten years ago,” began Morrigan, “they had only been traveling together for a short time when they both found me.”

“Why were they together in the first place?” asked Cullen.

Morrigan tipped her chin up and fixed him with a knowing stare. “You didn’t know?” she almost smiled. “Al and Bella were freedom fighters— _vigilantes_ —worked with an outfit called The Grey.”

Cullen’s eyes widened, “I’ve heard of them.”

“Well,” said Morrigan, lighting another cigarette, “I’ll bet you haven’t heard the _truth_ of it…”

Cullen waited for her to explain, but she didn’t.

“So how did they go from activists to crime lords?” asked Cullen finally.

“It had to do with Alistair…” said Morrigan, “Turns out he was the bastard son of the biggest crime family in Ferelden. He didn’t want any part of it, but Bella could see the writing on the wall. She knew it was the only way to really accomplish anything in this damn city.”

Morrigan huffed.

“So what did he need help with six months ago?” Cullen asked under his breath.

“What?” asked Morrigan irritatedly.

“Nothing…” said Cullen. He needed to ask Alistair—not Morrigan.

* * *

In the silence that followed, Cullen’s mind wandered back through the last six months. After that day in his office, he’d managed to quit the pills. It wasn’t instant, but he knew he needed a clear head if he was going to make it. He had Icis in mind too. He wanted to prove his worth to her.

Day by day he started to find himself. It started with glances at his reflection—his eyes were clearer and his face less hollow. Next, he started to gain some weight—his shoulders grew broader—and his skin looked less grey. Emotionally, he was different too. Although he was still as cynical as ever, he started to see hints of good in people. It was that spark that led to the opening of his PI firm. People like Fiona poured into his office from all over the city, looking for lost loved ones or trying to solve their own emotional mysteries. It wasn’t his original plan, but he grew to really like it.

One stormy evening, 4 months after the day Icis walked out on him, she appeared at his door. Her hair was down, and her suspenders were missing in favor of a long, button-down dress.

“Hi,” she said quietly.

Her red lips parted as if to say more, but she didn’t get the chance. Cullen crushed her body toward his and kissed her hard enough that she stiffened in shock. For a moment, Cullen thought he’d misjudged her, but seconds later she was crumpling handfuls of his shirt in her fists. He pushed her back against the desk roughly and tore at the buttons of her dress. She responded in kind—he could still feel the drag of her nails across his chest. He had carried her up the small spiral staircase to his bed and they’d not said a word. The whole night passed in a blur of sighs and whimpers.

In the morning, he rose first. He thought about waking her, but instead he snuck out of bed like a thief. He dressed silently and left a note.

_Chief, had to head out. I’ll be in touch._

It was rather cold, even for him. And he _didn’t_ contact her again, despite his assertion to the contrary. Since then, their interactions were—understandably—strained. He hadn’t really seen her since she showed up asking for help with the Theirin Crime Syndicate.

 _But what about Alistair? Where did he fit?_ Cullen bit his bottom lip nervously and rubbed his right temple with his forefinger. In Cullen’s estimation history _mattered_. Solving a mystery was a matter of defining events as much as it was defining characters. When Alistair was back in Cullen’s office, it would be time for a _chat_.


	8. Danger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair wonders if he is in danger.

**Alistair**

Alistair’s head hit the wall with a crack. His eyes danced with stars. Cullen’s breath was hot on his neck and although it sent chills up his spine, he thought he might be in danger.

“What did you _want_ from me?” snarled Cullen into Alistair’s ear.

“What?” swallowed Alistair. Cullen’s hand was balled into a fist at his collar and it was making it hard to breathe.

Cullen drew his face back until their noses nearly touched.

“Six months ago…” continued Cullen, his voice barely louder than a whisper, “Why did you come to my office?”

Alistair’s eyes widened. He didn’t think Cullen remembered that. He had _hoped_ he didn’t remember. Since the first moment he laid eyes on Cullen in his club he wondered if this day was coming. Over the last few weeks, though, it seemed like Cullen had completely forgotten about it. What changed?

“I wanted to get out of the syndicate,” answered Alistair. His voice was hoarse and he was panting. “I heard you might be able to help me—I thought you were still on the force then.”

Cullen loosened the grip on Alistair’s shirt, but didn’t back up.

“But when I _saw_ you that day…” continued Alistair. He wondered if he should say this part, “...you looked…” he trailed off.

Cullen rolled his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck with his palm. “I looked pathetic?” he barked.

Alistair shook his head in horror. He didn’t want to insult a man who had so easily pinned him against a wall.

“What then?” scoffed Cullen, “looked like an addict? A lowlife? A _mess_?”

“No!” yelled Alistair, “none of that… you looked… _hurt_.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed. Alistair fought an urge to comfort him.

“I didn’t want to bother you after that,” said Alistair.

Cullen’s expression softened. Alistair noticed he still didn’t back away. His thigh was pressed firmly between Alistair’s and their chests brushed. Inexplicably, though, Alistair had no desire to throw him off. In fact, he wanted to pull him _closer_. In the time it took Alistair to examine his thoughts, he realized Cullen’s hand was no longer threatening to choke him, but laying gently in the space below his clavicle.

That was all he needed: Alistair kissed him hard. He closed his eyes tight and didn’t dare open them. The nervousness in his gut blossomed into passion and he didn’t dare stop. Pressing forward, he wrapped his arms around Cullen’s waist and ran his fingers over the edge of Cullen’s belt. When he finally had to breathe, he tentatively peeked from under his eyelids. He anticipated a furious expression and he wondered if Cullen would shove him against the wall again, but Cullen’s eyes were not angry—they were warm.

Invigorated, Alistair grabbed Cullen’s shirt and ripped it apart. Buttons skittered across the hardwood floor and landed in every corner of Cullen’s office. Cullen growled into the skin of Alistair’s neck.

 

* * *

 

**Several Hours Earlier**

In the distance, Alistair could see Morrigan and Cullen’s silhouettes. They were strangely elongated in the failing light of the ruined streetlamp.

“That’s them,” called Alistair, “just over there.”

A group of three men Alistair managed to persuade to help them grunted unintelligibly to each other. Of course, Alistair had been forced to pay top dollar for them—they weren’t the type of goons who would do this work out of the goodness of their hearts.

As they came closer, Alistair noticed that Morrigan was looking even more contemptuous than usual.

“Gee, Al,” she said, “Did you stop to smell the roses at every street corner or what?”

Alistair sighed, but didn’t speak. His head was still pounding and he had a burning sensation extending from his neck to the first three digits of his left hand. He was also _filthy_ —his hair was caked with dirt and his previously white shirt looked beige with grime.

Cullen was leaning against the car. The brim of his hat was covering his eyes again, Alistair noticed. _What secrets was he hiding under that hat?_

“All right, boys,” called Alistair, “I’ll pop it into neutral and you pull it out.”

He slid into the driver’s seat and stepped on the clutch.

 

After a variety of failed attempts, it became apparent that the car was stuck. It would be staying in that ditch until a tow truck came to pull it out. Alistair sighed and let his forehead touch the steering wheel.

“Never mind, boys,” he called, pushing the door open, “thanks for the help.” He didn’t know _why_ he was thanking these thugs—not only had he paid them exorbitantly, but they hadn’t managed to actually do any work for him. He wondered fleetingly if his lack of enthusiasm for running the syndicate came from his inability to run _people_.

“That’s it?” asked Morrigan. Her tone assured Alistair that the question was rhetorical and meant as a joke for anyone within earshot: _Stupid-Al strikes again._

“That’s it…” he parroted. “Now we walk…”

The three of them tucked their hands into their pockets and set off in the direction from which they came. Within a few steps, their footfalls struck the pavement in time.

“So what is the plan here, exactly?” asked Alistair. His frustration was mounting with each audible scuff of his leather shoes.

Morrigan and Cullen turned to look at him simultaneously—their expressions unreadable.

“Once we get back to civilization, I mean,” amended Alistair.

“Well,” began Cullen, turning to look at the road ahead, “Morrigan is going to do some checking with her _contacts_ while we regroup back at my office.”

“What contacts?” asked Alistair.

“Don’t worry yourself with these details, Al,” Morrigan waved her hand dismissively. “Surely the exertion will hurt your head…”

Alistair seethed.

 

Several miles later, Morrigan hailed a cab. She looked completely unfazed by the entire experience—as if a car crash and subsequent several-mile walk in 4 inch heels was just a regular Sunday afternoon activity.

“Ta ta, boys,” she called out the window.

They watched the cab pull away in awkward silence. Alistair looked down at his feet.

“Ready?” asked Cullen a moment later.

“Uh, yeah…” mumbled Alistair. He wasn’t ready, per se. He wasn’t even sure what he was supposed to be _ready_ for.

“Can I ask you something?” said Cullen when, presumably, the silence was no longer tolerable.

Alistair shrugged without looking up.

“How did you get mixed up in this?”

Alistair wasn’t sure what he meant.

“I mean,” continued Cullen, “you don’t really strike me as the type… _Freedom fighter_?”

Alistair sighed, “Morrigan told you?”

Cullen nodded.

“I fell into it, actually,” answered Alistair. “I was recruited out of an orphanage, of all places.” He almost laughed when Cullen’s eyes widened with disbelief. “Apparently, my father had arranged the whole thing—only I didn’t know it back then—I thought it was just dumb luck.”

He wondered if he should keep talking. This was skirting the line of how personal he was willing to be. But when he saw Cullen’s face, he felt braver.

“So I joined the Grey,” he continued. “I had just started to get my bearings when Bella was recruited… and then… the _tragedy_ …” He rubbed his palm across his forehead remembering.

“What tragedy?” asked Cullen eagerly.

Alistair’s eyes widened, “The _explosion_?”

Cullen shook his head.

“Wow… I thought everyone knew… some of the higher-ups had organized a rally—something to really shake up the elites of this town,” he swore bitterly under his breath. “...Bella and I were assigned to a side mission. While we were away from the fray all hell broke loose—in the morning, we were the only ones left.”

Alistair paused, but Cullen didn’t say anything.

“That’s how we met Morrigan,” he said finally. “We probably wouldn’t have survived the whole ordeal if we hadn’t run into her…”

Cullen looked skeptical.

“I know what you’re thinking.” Alistair smirked. “Morrigan is not exactly the helpful-rescuer-type…”

Cullen’s lip curled into a smile.

“She had her own reasons… let me tell you…” Alistair laughed despite himself.

 

When they finally rounded the corner near Cullen’s office, Alistair looked up at the second-story window and smiled.

“You know your way up, don’t you?” asked Cullen suddenly. He had an expression Alistair couldn’t read.

“I guess…” said Alistair. ‘ _What does that mean?’_ he wondered.

Cullen was eyeing him strangely as they passed into the hallway and rounded the circuitous stairs. The second the door closed, Alistair _knew_ he was in trouble. Cullen grabbed his collar and pushed him—hard.

 

* * *

 

**The Next Morning**

Alistair opened his eyes tentatively. Beams of sunlight made him squint. It was an uncharacteristically warm and sunny day outside. In the time between sleeping and waking, Alistair wondered where he was. His body felt sort of sore. As his vision sharpened, Alistair felt a prickling sensation across his skin. He turned and came face to face with Cullen. He didn’t dare make a sound. This whole thing had been beautiful in the moment, but in daylight he doubted it would seem idyllic. He wondered if it would be possible to escape the room without waking Cullen. He peeked at the rickety staircase that led to Cullen’s office below them--he knew it would creek. Just as he was preparing to sneak out the window onto the fire escape, Cullen’s eyes opened.

“Hi?” whispered Alistair. He retracted his limbs defensively.

“Hi,” said Cullen. He wrapped an arm around Alistair’s waist and propped his head up on a folded arm.

Alistair relaxed slightly, but was still cataloging the room’s exits.

“Are you okay?” asked Cullen. His mouth was pulled into a teasing shape.

Alistair let his cheek rest more gently on the pillow and exhaled. “Yeah… _are you_?” He really meant, ‘ _Are we_ _okay_? _Are you going to attack me again?_ ’

Cullen ran his fingertips over the ridge of Alistair’s hip. “Oh, I’m _fine_.” He smiled charmingly.

“So…” Alistair mumbled, “What are we going to _do_ about this?”

Cullen traced the outline of Alistair’s ribs absently. Everywhere he touched, the skin tingled. Alistair shuddered.

“I mean…” Alistair swallowed hard, “what does this mean--”

Alistair was cut off mid-sentence when the door to the office below crashed open. Before they could understand what was truly happening, they were on their feet. Alistair fumbled through piles of clothes and nearly fell trying to get into his pants. He could feel his pulse in his neck.

“Come out with your hands up,” yelled a deep female voice Alistair didn’t recognize. “And no funny business!”

Alistair watched as Cullen silently pulled a revolver out of his shabby bedside table. He wished he had his own weapon, but settled for wrapping a piece of cloth around his knuckles. At the edge of the stairs, he nodded for Cullen to follow him.


	9. Confusion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen is shocked to learn that Alistair hasn't been entirely truthful--he subsequently realizes he's in over his head.

* * *

 

**Cullen**

 

“That’s it. Nice and easy,” called Hawke. At the bottom of the staircase, Cullen couldn’t see her face, but he recognized the voice. Before he ever came to this god-forsaken city, Hawke had plagued him—he _thought_ he’d escaped her.

Two steps ahead of him, Alistair hunched his shoulders like a boxer. Cullen fingered the gun on his hip and shuddered.

“We don’t want any trouble,” said Alistair. His body language said otherwise.

“Yeah, just stop right there,” said a man at Hawke’s side.

Cullen had been held at gunpoint before, of course—too many times. This time seemed a little different, though. Cullen’s eyes kept creeping up Alistair’s back. They landed somewhere on the skin between his neck and his shoulder—a soft patch of alabaster against the scratchy fabric of his dirty shirt.

“Hawke?” said Alistair. He raised his hands in a gesture of surrender.

Hawke’s lips curled at one end. Her smile was cruel, but compelling. “Al,” she sneered, exposing one gold canine, “How long has it been?”

Alistair’s shoulders relaxed a little. “Too long,” he suddenly took two steps forward and extended a hand in her direction.

Cullen had to stop himself from reaching out to grab Alistair. He almost yelled, ‘ _don’t touch her!’_

Hawke laughed, “Come here, buddy.” To Cullen’s horror, Hawke waved off her goons and bypassed Alistair’s outstretched hand, pulling him into a rough hug.

“Cullen,” said Alistair, turning, “This is my friend, Hawke.” His arm was still around her waist as he whirled.

Cullen’s face was suddenly hot with embarrassment. The story Bella and Alistair fed him in his office was obviously fabricated. To what end, he wasn’t sure. Now he was faced with a more pressing problem, though—his _own_ history with Hawke had _not_ been an exaggeration. If anything, he had downplayed the bad blood between them. To her, he was a monster.

“Get down on the ground,” she said quietly. Although her arm was still wound around Alistair’s waist, her smile had faded and the color drained from her cheeks.

Cullen hesitated.

“I said _get down_!” she yelled.

Cullen looked at Alistair, hoping he would belay that order, but he didn’t say anything. If anything, the pervasive mood between them was nonchalance. As if he’d been punched, Cullen crumpled to his knees and hinged at the waist. His eyes landed somewhere on the hardwood in front of him as someone tied his hands behind his back.

“Hawke,” said Alistair, “I’m glad I found you. I had to hire this guy to help me—I hope that’s all right.” His voice sounded _easy_. Cullen didn’t look up, but he could _hear_ Alistair’s smile.

Hawke took four deliberate steps closer to Cullen. Her heavy footfalls made the whole office creak. “Al,” Hawke sighed, “I wish you hadn’t used this _particular_ PI—this guy is no friend to people like us.” She stomped her boot pointedly on the floor between them sending a puff of dust into Cullen’s eyes.

“Oh,” Alistair laughed, “he’s not so bad—he takes his work quite seriously…” he let the words trail off as Cullen seethed. Cullen had certainly had his share of one night stands, but they weren’t normally orchestrated for personal gain—this man was a monster.

Hawke suddenly kneeled and pulled up sharply on Cullen’s chin. He kept his eyes closed, avoiding her gaze. Her grip on him intensified as she let out a sigh. “Boys, take him to lockup.” Hands were suddenly on Cullen’s shoulders. He fought to keep himself upright, but instantly regretted it as he was punched repeatedly in the gut. A final blow landed over his right eye. As he began to lose consciousness, he thought of Alistair in the morning light from his office window—but that was another world; a world where good things _did_ happen to lousy cads like him. He was a fool to think he could live there.

 

* * *

 

“Hey,” someone whispered. Cullen could feel the person’s breath on his cheek, but he couldn’t see anything—his vision was blurry and he had a ringing sound in his head.

“Hey,” the person said again, “Cullen, wake up.” The voice was incessant.

“What?” croaked Cullen. He blinked a few times, but realized the room was pitch black. He feebly reached for the person whose voice he could almost place. His fingers found stubble and soft lips that kissed the pads as he ran over them—Alistair.

Cullen was suddenly angry. He pulled his hand away and tried to sit up, despite his throbbing headache. “What do _you_ want?” he almost yelled.

“Shhh,” cautioned Alistair. He put a palm on Cullen’s chest and looped the other under Cullen’s trembling arm. “Hold onto me… we have to get _out_ of here,” he whispered.

“What the hell are you doing?” asked Cullen. He was still mad, but he decided to take Alistair’s advice about whispering. He was a _preservationist,_ if nothing else.

“I’m _rescuing_ you,” said Alistair. His voice was insistent, but a hint of comedy hung in each vowel. He pulled Cullen up by his arms, but didn’t let go when they were fully standing. Cullen didn’t let go either.

“I’ve got a car out back, we just need to get down the fire escape,” said Alistair. In the darkness, Alistair traced the lines of Cullen’s chest and eventually cupped his cheek. Cullen’s indecision froze him in place.

“Okay,” said Cullen finally, “you lead the way, I can’t see anything…”

Alistair nuzzled his nose into Cullen’s neck and gently kissed the skin above his clavicle. Cullen shivered.

As soon as the heavy drapes were drawn back, Cullen could see they were in some sort of abandoned building. The iron fire escape outside looked like it hadn’t been safe for use in at least a decade, but they were only two stories up. He thought they might make it.

“Stay right behind me,” said Alistair. He squeezed Cullen’s arm before turning toward the rickety landing.

Each step Cullen took landed with a squeaking clang. The rusted metal was decaying to such a degree that it fell off in tiny sheets under Cullen’s feet. Outside the window, Alistair stopped short. Cullen was preoccupied by how high up they were and ran into Alistair’s back.

“Whoa,” said Alistair. He smirked at Cullen over his shoulder. “Careful…” he cautioned.

Cullen was still feeling raw and a little confused, but when Alistair reached out to take his hand, he _didn’t_ pull away. He rolled his fingers over the calluses at his first knuckle.

“About earlier—” he began.

Alistair bit his bottom lip. “You _understand_ … don’t you?”

Cullen squinted. He certainly understood the value of surviving to fight another day, but he wondered what would happen the _next_ time they were in a tight spot. Would he again be left to fend for himself?

“Yeah,” he answered tentatively, “I _guess_ … but the next time you’re trying to get us out of a scrape, maybe you could do it _before_ I get beat to a pulp.”

Alistair smiled—boyish and brave—before pulling Cullen into his chest on the fire escape. His expression made Cullen feel like the only person on earth who mattered. Cullen cursed internally—this was the stage when he inevitably got hurt.

“Let’s go,” said Cullen humorlessly. He stared at the street below.

“Hey,” said Alistair. He leaned down to force eye contact. “Are you _okay_?” He looked like he might really care.

“Yeah…” mumbled Cullen. His lips were just forming a mitigating adjective when Alistair kissed him. He tasted like cigarettes and scotch, but Cullen didn’t care. He felt time stretch unnaturally as he lost himself in a swirling haze of what he thought might be _actual_ happiness.

When Alistair finally pulled away, Cullen was breathing hard. He rubbed the side of his face and Alistair frowned.

“That’s going to be black and blue tomorrow,” he said quietly. “Let’s get out of here before Morrigan leaves without us…”

“Morrigan?” asked Cullen.

Alistair nodded and hopped down to the next landing.

 

* * *

 

In the alley, Cullen saw Morrigan’s silhouette in the driver’s side window. She looked as poised as she had on stage. As Cullen slid into the back seat of the car, he wondered what would happen now that they weren’t alone.

“You look _pretty_ ,” said Morrigan. Her musical voice was full of venom.

“He had a rough night,” said Alistair from the front seat.

As Morrigan shifted into first, Cullen thought about his face for the first time. He leaned to his left to inspect his reflection in the rearview mirror. The right side of his face was barely familiar. He traced the edge of his jaw with his index finger. It felt misshapen—swollen beyond recognition.

“That must hurt,” said Alistair. He didn't turn—he was eying Cullen in the mirror.

Cullen didn't necessarily want to admit he was in pain. He stayed quiet.

“When we get back, Bella will patch you up,” Alistair finished with a nod.

 

 _Bella_?

 

Cullen wasn't prepared to see her. It was a badly kept secret that Bella and Alistair were lovers. They had been for over a decade on and off.

 

_Why do I care?_

 

Cullen recognized something ugly brewing in his subconscious— _jealousy_. He hadn't felt it in so long he _almost_ didn't see it, but it's visage was permanently imprinted on him. His chest felt suddenly heavy and his skin crawled. His neck was hot and he wondered what his expression would be if his face was still his own.

“Al?” Morrigan was suddenly talking, as if no one else was in the car. “When we get back, I need to have a word with you—alone.”

As Alistair nodded, Cullen remembered that there was _more_ cause for alarm. Morrigan and Alistair had a child together—the circumstances of the birth were dubious at best and he had no plausible reason to ask for the story.

 

_Stop, Cullen. This is ridiculous._

 

He shook his head, trying to clear the haze that had settled in his periphery.

“Cullen?” called Morrigan, “are you okay?”

Cullen coughed. “Fine…”

 

* * *

 

An hour later, Cullen peeled himself out of the backseat and dragged his dysfunctional legs toward Alistair's bar.

“Morrigan? Al?” called Bella from the doorway. She was entirely backlit, making her features invisible, but her voice rang out with equal parts concern and contempt.

Cullen trailed Alistair by two feet, but when they crossed the threshold he reached for him. Alistair pulled his hand away and tried to pass off the gesture by pushing it through his hair.

 

_Cullen, you've done it again._


	10. The Secret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Morrigan offers Alistair something he's wanted for a long time, but it comes at a price--one that Alistair might not be able to afford.

* * *

 

**Alistair**

 

The place where Cullen’s fingers brushed Alistair’s forearm burned. He felt their imprint like a brand. He wanted to reach out and pull Cullen toward him—wrap his arms around his chest and nuzzle his nose in Cullen’s hair—but the six inches of air between them was iron. In _this_ company, he had reason for alarm—and _secrecy_.

Cullen sighed behind him. Alistair’s guilt wouldn’t let him look.

“What happened to _you_?” asked Bella. She squinted at Cullen’s face and motioned for him to follow her into the storeroom out back. Alistair trailed them warily.

Cullen gingerly lowered himself onto a lopsided crate in the dimly lit room. The hanging light swung slightly, casting everyone in variable shadow.

“Take that off,” instructed Bella. She pointed vaguely to Cullen’s shirt. It was a white and pin-striped, but most of the buttons were _missing_ —Alistair shuddered, remembering last night.

“You might want to shield your eyes—this isn’t going to be pretty…” mumbled Cullen. He slid his shoulders out of the shirt to reveal a large blue-ish purple oval on his side. Each beautiful intercostal and oblique was obscured by swelling and tiny gashes.

“Maker,” breathed Alistair. Bella gave him a reproachful look. “I mean… it looks bad,” he said to Cullen, “...but I’m _sure_ Bella will be able to sort it out…”

For the first time since they came inside, Cullen looked into Alistair’s eyes. There was such sincerity in his look that Alistair almost looked away.

“Listen—” Alistair almost choked on the words, “—Morrigan needs to see me… I’ll check on you later, okay?”

Cullen looked crestfallen, but nodded anyway.

 

* * *

 

Around the corner, Morrigan was sitting at the bar, her trenchcoat laying limply across the back of her chair. Her shoulders, which were bare, shone white against the black and chrome of the room. Every time he saw her, Alistair had to remind himself that she was dangerous—otherwise, he wasn’t sure _what_ might happen.

“Is he going to make it?” she asked. Her tone sounded like she didn’t care either way.

“Yeah,” answered Alistair, “he’ll be okay…” the pit of guilt in his stomach intensified.  “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“It’s about Kieran,” said Morrigan, lifting her eyes to meet his for the first time.

Alistair’s mouth felt dry. He slid into the seat next to her at the bar and hunched his shoulders.

“You wanted to see him.” Morrigan’s eye contact was strong enough to be unnerving. “...I didn’t think that was a good idea _considering_ …” she gestured to the bar disparagingly, “...but I’ve had a change of heart.”

Alistair thought he must have misheard. “Why?”

“Because there’s something he needs from you,” she answered, staring back down into her drink.

Alistair couldn’t imagine what he could _provide_ for a small boy—he’d never had a real father of his own, let alone _been_ someone’s father.

“There is one small detail, though,” said Morrigan. She swirled a tiny red straw around the rim of her tumbler. “I need you to be very specific about this…”

Alistair squinted at her, waiting for whatever horrible thing she was about to say.

“...what’s the story with that PI?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he hedged.

“ _What_ were you doing in his office when Hawke showed up? _Why_ didn’t you call me until the next day? _Why_ is he looking at you like you killed his kitten?” Her rhetoric was rather damning, now that Alistair considered it.

“I don’t know,” he said truthfully.

“Well, you’d better figure it out. This is a mess,” said Morrigan. “You’re putting yourself us in danger—he used to be a cop…”

“He’s not a cop anymore,” argued Alistair.

“I’ve seen him with Chief Lavellan,” cautioned Morrigan. “And professional alliances aside, there’s something going on there…” She sipped her drink and cocked an eyebrow—the implication obvious.

Alistair’s face flushed. He never considered himself a jealous person, but picturing Cullen with someone else made him hot under the collar. He examined his thoughts—they were completely illogical. He barely knew this guy and he wanted to _own_ him in a way he’d never owned anyone.

“My point is,” continued Morrigan, “I think Kieran would benefit from having you around… but we have to make sure the environment will be conducive to that.” She shot back the rest of her drink and pushed away from the bar, suddenly hurrying.

“Morrigan,” he grabbed the crook of her arm and forced her to meet his gaze. “This isn’t over.”

“Certainly not,” she laughed dismissively and shook her arm free. “When you’ve sorted this out, you know how to contact me.”

Alistair wasn’t even sure what she _meant_. He looked at her quizzically.

Morrigan rolled her eyes, as if reading his mind, “That _guy_ ,” she pointed at the storeroom, “is up to more than he seems to be…”

With that, she was gone and Alistair was left trying to decipher  her words. In all the years he’d known her she’d rarely been wrong.

 

* * *

 

Cullen’s chest was fully bandaged when Alistair closed the storeroom door behind him.

“See? I told you he’d be fine,” said Bella, packaging up her medical supplies. She smiled and pushed the door open with her hip.

The moment the door closed, Alistair grabbed Cullen’s hand and squished it between his palms.

“Are you all right?” He searched Cullen’s face for signs of pain or more serious injury.

“Yeah,” said Cullen. He wouldn't meet Alistair's gaze.

“I'm _sorry_ ,” sputtered Alistair, “I should have stopped Hawke… I just wasn't sure we'd get out of there alive if I had…”

Cullen shook his head dismissively.

“Can I do anything for you?” Alistair asked. He leaned down until he and Cullen were eye to eye.

“Kiss me,” said Cullen.

Alistair flushed. “Here?” He swallowed hard, “ _now_?”

“Don't make me _beg_ ,” Cullen smirked.

Ironically, now that he'd been invited, Alistair couldn't muster the bravery to surmount the three inches of air between them. Morrigan’s words were echoing in his head.

“I wouldn't want Chief Lavellan to get word of this…” He said darkly. It was a diversion, but it came out sounding like a threat.

Cullen's smile faded instantly. He crossed his arms over his chest and sighed.

“You _are_ working with her, aren’t you?” asked Alistair. He heard himself say the words as if he was watching the scene from a distance.

“What does that have to do with anything?,” asked Cullen, backing up even further.

“I’d just like to know which of us you intend to send up the river first,” said Alistair venomously. “My friends and I went out on a limb for you and here _you_ are trying to put us away…” he was rambling now.

“Al—” Cullen interrupted himself mid-sentence, “forget it. I’m leaving.” He stood.

Alistair saw him begin to falter even before he started to fall.

“Hey,” Alistair caught Cullen around the waist, “You’re not going anywhere like this.” He pulled Cullen close under they were chest-to-chest—face-to-face.

“What are you going to do about it?” asked Cullen. There was a dangerous look in his eyes.

Alistair licked his lip and breathed in shallowly. What _was_ he going to do?

“That’s what I thought,” said Cullen darkly. “I should have known this was all some kind of game…” he started to disentangle himself from Alistair’s arms.

Alistair pulled him back—hard enough that Cullen gasped at the pain as their bodies collided. “This isn’t safe,” said Alistair through gritted teeth. “...but I want you.”

The kiss that followed said more than all the words he could have mustered combined.

“Let’s get out of here,” whispered Cullen. His lips were glistening—Alistair almost couldn’t hear him over the blood rushing in his ears.

Alistair nodded, but kissed him once more before moving toward the door. There was just one problem: while he was carrying on with Cullen, he would never be able to convince Morrigan to let him see Kieran. He _knew_ he needed to end this—but he wasn’t sure how.

Alistair’s hand lay flat against the wooden door, but he stopped moving. “Cullen?” He turned. “We need to keep this quiet— _secret_.”

Cullen’s brow furrowed.

“I want you. I’m _with_ you…” He kissed Cullen’s cheek. “...but there are other factors here… ones I can’t explain…”

Cullen rolled his eyes.

“...yet.” finished Alistair. “I _will_ … when I can.”

Cullen looked like he was trying to suppress an ill-timed smile.

“When we go out here, we’ve got to convince these people we hate each other,” said Alistair suddenly.

Cullen’s lips were slightly parted. He inhaled, but didn’t say anything.

“I’m going to push you…” continued Alistair. “How can I do it so that I don’t actually _kill_ you?”

“Just punch me—square in the jaw,” said Cullen.

Alistair was taken aback—he didn’t want to see any more areas of blue appear on Cullen.

“It’ll be black and blue tomorrow, but it won’t break any more ribs.” He gently rubbed a hand over his damaged side.

Alistair’s eyes followed his palm. He shuddered.

“Just tell me this,” said Alistair. “Are you playing an angle here? Is Chief Lavellan lurking somewhere, waiting to arrest us?”

Cullen sighed, “no,” he said seriously, “She _wants_ to be—but we haven’t seen eye-to-eye in a long time…” he trailed off.

Alistair thought he knew what he meant. He was inexplicably hot again.

“All right, let’s go,” said Cullen, pushing past him.

 

* * *

 

“If I _ever_ see you around here again I’ll—” yelled Alistair. He made sure his voice was loud enough for everyone in the whole bar to hear him.

“You won’t!” shouted Cullen. He clutched his side protectively as he limped toward the door. “But if you so much as step an _inch_ over the line…” he straightened threateningly, “I’ll be back…”

Alistair knew this was his cue. He raised his right fist and tried not to wince as it connected with Cullen’s jaw. Cullen was knocked into all fours. He let his head hang limply—a string of rapidly clotting blood fell from his mouth to the floor.

Alistair grabbed the back of Cullen’s collar and jerked his head up. “Now _get out_.”

Cullen staggered and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Go to hell,” he said darkly. With that, he was gone. Alistair looked from face to face. From their shocked expressions, he knew it had worked. If only he didn’t feel so personally _broken_.


	11. Meetings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when it seems like Cullen is finally going to get a break everything becomes even more complicated.

* * *

 

**Cullen**

Cullen drummed his fingertips on the desk rhythmically. The waiting was torturous. Any moment now Alistair would sneak in through the fire escape window. They couldn't use the door anymore—too many potential witnesses in the lobby downstairs and through the hallways. His hair would be pleasantly disheveled and his tie a bit loose around his throat. His clothes would smell faintly of smoke and gasoline, but underneath his skin would be clean and smooth.

Cullen looked up at the clock again. 10 past midnight—he was late. Alistair was a lot of things, but late wasn't usually one of them. Cullen rose and peered out the back window. The night air was cool and a siren was wailing in the distance, but there was no sign of his lover. _Lover?_ The word didn't sound right. He wasn't sure what else to call him, though. Boyfriend? Beau? _No_. There was no language for what they were to each other. Two grown men who inexplicably found comfort in each other's arms? Others might call them abominations—or _worse_.

Cullen shivered. He wasn't wearing much--just a thin shirt and sleeping pants. In anticipation of these— _meetings_ —Cullen had a routine. He would finish his work at about 10, take a shower, shave—although not completely, Alistair seemed to like a bit of stubble—then find clothes that fit the occasion. He still wasn't quite sure what that meant—but something soft, with space around his neck. He thought of his clavicles as assets. Then he would _wait_ —however long it took to see Alistair sneak into the alley out back and climb up to his window.

Cullen decided to go upstairs and tidy his room. It was futile—the room was already expertly arranged—but he needed to do something to pass the time. Just as he fluffed all the pillows for the third time, he heard the curtains of his shabby office rustle and the metallic creak of the fire escape.

“Cullen?” called Alistair from downstairs. His voice was tentative—barely louder than a whisper.

Cullen's heart sped up as he whirled down the spiral staircase. “I'm here.” He tried to steady himself. This was all still so new—he didn't want to seem too eager. “You're late,” he said reproachfully as he took Alistair into his arms.

“I'm sorry about that.” Alistair nipped the edge of his ear and kissed his neck. “It couldn't be helped.”

Cullen wondered what that meant, but he didn't ask—day to day syndicate activities weren't what he wanted to talk about _now_.

“Did you miss me?” asked Alistair. He stepped away from Cullen and set his hat and cuff links on the desk. He was wearing a cocky smile.

“Oh, I barely remembered you were coming,” said Cullen. He smirked.

“Well, perhaps next time I won't,” retorted Alistair in kind.

They stared at each other—wondering who would be the first to crack. Cullen guessed it would be him. He wanted Alistair too much—it was almost dangerous.

“You're late already, let's not waste time being coy,” said Cullen finally. He sauntered up to Alistair and began unbuttoning his shirt.

Alistair nodded and ran his hands over Cullen's sides, which were finally fully healed.

When Cullen had discarded Alistair's shirt and began working on detaching his suspenders from the waist of his pants, he noticed something bulky in his left pocket. “What is this?” He asked, removing a thick envelope.

Alistair grabbed the packet and backed up suddenly. “Nothing.”

Cullen raised an eyebrow, “it doesn't seem like _nothing_.”

Alistair sighed irritatedly, “stay out of this one—it has nothing to do with you…” He pulled the suspenders the rest of the way off. The lines of his bare chest were illuminated in the streetlight. “And for god's sake, Cullen, close the windows.” He ran to the edges of the room and shut the drapes—annoyance apparent in his every move.

Cullen's shoulders slumped. This was less romantic than he had hoped—it always was.

With the room almost completely dark, Alistair unbuttoned his trousers and folded them on the table—on top of the mysterious envelope. His state of undress seemed more _presumptuous_ than sexually enticing at this point.

“What are you even doing here?” asked Cullen sadly.

“Cullen…” Alistair growled his name. “You _know_ why I come… Let's just go to bed…” He crossed the room in two silent steps and was kissing the edge of Cullen's jaw before Cullen could stop him.

“Okay, okay…” Mumbled Cullen. The situation wasn't _ideal_ , but it was better than _not_ seeing him.

 

* * *

 

In the aftermath of their lovemaking, Cullen usually felt relaxed—as close as he ever came to _blissful_ , even. Today, though, he felt raw—it hadn't taken one iota of the tension out of his body or changed his mind about that strange envelope downstairs. Under their thin sheet, he was seething.

“Good night,” whispered Alistair. He turned onto his right side to face the wall.

“Good night?” Cullen asked.

“Aren't you tired? It's one in the morning…” said Alistair sleepily.

Cullen put a hand on Alistair’s shoulder and pulled until he was flat on his back. Leaning over him, Cullen felt the bravery of having the upper hand.

“What's in the envelope?” he asked seriously.

Alistair rolled his eyes.

“I'm serious… I'm not going to be able to sleep until you tell me,” he said.

Alistair tried to roll back onto his right side, but Cullen had him pinned to the mattress.

“Maker’s breath…” He groaned, “it's just some documents Bella wanted… Nothing that has anything to do with _you_ …”

Cullen was skeptical. He just stared.

“Cullen,” said Alistair. Now, he was clearly exasperated. “There are some things we just _can't_ talk about--it doesn't _mean_ anything.”

Cullen took exception to his tone _and_ the content—Alistair still hadn't explained one shred of the reason they had to be enemies publicly. Certainly, they couldn't be… _whatever_ they really were… But they didn't have to hate each other.

“If you're done interrogating me, I'd like to get some sleep…” complained Alistair.

Cullen felt suddenly hot. “I'm _not_ done.” He stared down at Alistair, silently daring him to try to move again.

“What _is_ this?” asked Cullen. “Are we…” He couldn't find the words, “... _something_?”

Alistair looked like he was going to laugh.

Cullen exhaled, trying to avoid the fury building in his chest.

“We’re going to do this right now?” asked Alistair. His tone was mocking.

“ _Honestly_ , Al,” said Cullen more softly, “what is the _point_ of all this?”

Alistair’s smile faded. He looked dumbstruck.

“If it were just about the sex…” began Cullen, “I don't think we would have let it go on this long.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Alistair defensively.

“Because this is _hard_ ,” answered Cullen. He found the words without hesitation now. “Because we could easily be having sex with women… We could even take them to a movie or into a bar… It would be easy… _normal_.”

Alistair’s lips parted slightly, but he didn't say anything.

“I think this is something _else_ ,” concluded Cullen.

He paused.

“I think you love me.”

He let the words hang in the air, barely daring to breathe.

“You think…?” Alistair didn't finish the sentence. He looked furious. “Why would you—” he pushed Cullen roughly onto the other side of the bed and sat up. The blankets pooled around his waist.

Cullen followed, sitting up next to him.

“...and I think I love you too…” he kissed the skin of Alistair’s shoulder and wrapped his arms around his chest.

Alistair inhaled sharply, “you… You do?” He gasped, turning to meet Cullen's eyes.

Cullen was genuinely scared. He knew that if he said the wrong thing right now he would probably be punched—again.. And, more painful than the bodily harm, he wouldn't be able to see Alistair anymore.

“Maker… I.” Alistair stumbled Over the words. “I never… I mean…”

“I _love_ you,” said Cullen more quietly. Bravery won out as he leaned into Alistair.

“I—I love—,” whispered Alistair.

“It's not a dirty word.” Cullen knew it _was_ , in a way, but he smiled encouragingly nevertheless.

Alistair’s expression changed. “I love you. Are you happy?” he snapped.

“I will be,” said Cullen. He knew it would take Alistair some time to get used to this—time he would give him. Cullen cupped Alistair’s cheek and smiled faintly.

“We sure know how to make everything complicated, don’t we?” joked Alistair.

Cullen smirked.

“You’ll still be here when I wake up?” asked Alistair hesitantly.

“Of course,” said Cullen. “Hopefully for a lot more mornings.”

Alistair nodded and curled onto his left side—the side _facing_ Cullen. He was asleep so quickly Cullen wondered if he was faking.

 

* * *

 

What felt like a second later, it was light outside. Cullen moved a lot in his sleep and he found himself completely entangled with Alistair. His right arm was under Alistair’s neck—the fingers were numb from the pressure. The sheets were wrapped around them like a cocoon and he couldn’t seem to free his curly mess of hair from one of Alistair's palms. He didn’t care, though. It was already the best morning he’d had in years.

“Hi there,” he said gently.

Alistair woke with a start, but settled as soon as he realized where he was. He curled tighter into Cullen and kissed him lazily. “Good morning,” he mumbled. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know,” said Cullen. He kissed Alistair’s forehead and hugged him into his side. He knew as soon as he got up, he would have to deal with his life again—it felt anticlimactic. Eventually he groaned and disentangled himself from the linens. His first few steps toward the dresser were a bit shaky, but he regained his composure rather quickly.

“It’s almost 6:30,” he answered. “We only slept five hours; let’s go back to bed.”

Alistair smirked, “I’m late already… I need to take a shower,” he rose easily and crossed to the bathroom.

“Can I at least convince you to eat something?” asked Cullen.

Alistair nodded.

Downstairs, Cullen looked at his dismal kitchen offerings—he had eggs, but he wondered how old they were. He rifled through the cupboards and countertops looking for something that _resembled_ food. In his haste, he knocked Alistair’s clothes off the counter along with the envelope he’d stashed there last night.

When Cullen bent over to pick it up, his mouth went dry. Inside were pictures of them— _together_.

_Why on earth would Alistair have these?_

He shuffled through the prints without care—their edges folded and bent; one tore slightly. They were damning. From the progression it looked like nearly every night they’d spent together over the last several weeks. Cullen thought he might vomit— _who was watching them?_

“Alistair?” called Cullen. His voice was strangled and tight. “Alistair.” He rushed up the stairs, still holding half of the photographs. At the landing, Alistair was naked save a towel around his waist and water was running down the muscles of his back as he dried his unruly hair.

“What the hell are these?” breathed Cullen.

Alistair stopped dead—he dropped the towel onto the floor next to him and bit his bottom lip.

“Where did they come from?” Cullen’s voice rose higher and louder as he took three deliberate steps forward.

“You couldn’t leave well enough alone…” Alistair rolled his eyes and pushed a hand through his wet hair.

“What?” yelled Cullen. His anger was approaching intolerable levels.

“I told you there are some things we couldn’t talk about,” said Alistair coldly. “I warned you not to push it…”

He crossed the room and was suddenly dressing. Cullen watched him in horror.

“I got my hands on those to save you a mess of trouble.” Alistair finished buttoning his shirt and slung his tie across the back of his neck.

“ _Me_?” asked Cullen, “Aren’t you just trying to protect yourself?”

Alistair scoffed, “Did you _look_ at them, Cullen?” He paused.

Cullen wasn’t sure what he meant.

“It’s not _my_ face in those pictures… no one would ever know,” said Alistair.

Cullen dropped the black and white prints onto the bed and scanned them—Alistair’s face wasn’t in any of these. Every photograph was taken to maximize Cullen’s exposure.

“These could ruin me,” Cullen muttered under his breath.

“Exactly,” said Alistair, gathering the photos.

“Where the _hell_ are you going?” asked Cullen. He was so angry he couldn’t think straight.

“Anywhere but here,” yelled Alistair.

Cullen heard him clamber down the stairs and slam the door on his way out. When he was alone, he sat on the edge of the bed and stared out the window.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this fic many months ago when I hadn't fully found my voice yet. Looking at the earlier chapters, I can see where they need to be edited. Eventually, I'll get around to that. For the time being, though, I'm going to continue developing the story in my current style. The topics of repression we're getting into now need to be talked about for as long as they are an issue--which seems like it's going to be a long time, unfortunately. 
> 
> Thank you to all the readers who have stuck with me this far. I hope you love and hate and dread and relish where this goes. :)


	12. Recklessness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The origin of the photos is revealed. Alistair makes some bad decisions.

* * *

 

**Alistair**

 

In the alley outside Cullen’s office, Alistair seethed. He wanted to be angry—he was _trying_ —but he knew he was actually heartbroken. He wanted to go back upstairs and tell Cullen everything—lie back down in that shabby bed and hold him until they had an understanding. But _how_ could he explain the pictures? He didn’t even know _why_ he’d had them taken in the first place. Ostensibly, it was for protection—in case Cullen tried anything in the future; in case he needed to get rid of him in a hurry. But _now_ , in light of everything that happened last night, he couldn’t imagine a scenario where he used them.

His shoes scratched across the pavement with each step. He wasn’t even sure where he was going. He could go back to the club—back to Bella—but that felt wrong. She wasn’t one to comfort him, anyway. He could try to contact Morrigan—to tell her he wasn’t seeing Cullen anymore. She was the only one who’d _seen_ —who’d understood—what was going on between them. She wasn’t _safe_ , though. Maker only knows what she’d do to him if he admitted it plainly.

That was the crux of his problem—there was no one he could talk to about this. _No one_ who would understand it. Hell, _he_ barely understood it.

He stopped walking. There was _one_ person—Cullen, of course… but he was currently _furious_ with Alistair. He would probably slam the door in Alistair’s face. Still, indecision kept him fixed in place. His head said ‘keep moving,’ while his heart told him to run back the way he came. Ultimately, the decision was made for him when a woman’s voice called out to him from a passing cab.

“Hey,” said Icis, “Didn’t I shoot you once?” She smiled tauntingly over the edge of the car window.

Alistair wasn’t in the mood for jokes. “Do you _want_ something, Chief?”

“Get in.” She slid out of his vision to the far side of the cab and pushed open the door with the heel of a red stiletto.

Alistair normally wouldn’t have gotten in the car, but he wasn’t in his right mind. He slid into the seat next to her, shut the door, and rolled up the window.

“You look rough.” Her musical voice was full of comedy.

“Yeah, well...” Alistair tried to think of a retort, but failed. She looked _different_ —far too dressed up for breakfast. He wondered if she was still out from the night before. “Where are you going anyway?” he asked, interrupting himself.

“Home,” she answered curtly.

He was right—she _was_ still out. He _wanted_ to ask where she was coming _from_.

“Tell me this,” said Icis daringly, “what has become of my former detective?” She slid closer to him in the cab until they touched. Alistair backed up into the door, but couldn’t avoid brushing against her hip.

“What do you mean?” He tried to act disinterested.

She cocked her head to the side and dragged her tongue across her upper lip. “He hasn’t been taking my calls for almost a month... “ she explained, “last time I saw him, he was with _you_.”

“Circumstantial at best,” he barked. He knew how these law enforcement types worked—entrapment was their favorite tactic.

“It _would_ be,” she smiled as she spoke, “except I stopped by the office one night last week…” she let her words trail off.

Alistair felt his skin prickle. _Could she have seen them together?_

“What does that prove?” asked Alistair hesitantly. He tried to keep his voice steady and his expression neutral. He had to find out what she knew without giving anything away.

“I saw your car out back; kind of late for a friendly visit…” she looked out the window at the passing streets placidly—as if she were talking about the _weather_ and not the destruction of Alistair’s whole life.

Alistair swallowed. He couldn’t think of anything to say.

“I know what you’re up to,” she said, suddenly making intense eye contact.

Alistair opened his mouth and raised his hand to interrupt her, but she waved him off.

“Whatever take-over you’re planning, leave him out of it.” Her voice was definite.

Alistair felt so relieved that he inadvertently smiled.

“And wipe that dumb smirk off your face before I do it for you,” she groused. “Cabbie,” she called to the driver, “he’ll be getting out here.”

“I expect to hear from him _today_ ,” she said to Alistair as he stepped out of the car.

Bewildered, he nodded and watched her drive away.

 

* * *

 

When her car was out of sight and he was again alone on the street, he realized he didn’t know where he was. It didn’t matter, though—his secret was, _for now_ , safe. The elation he felt seemed inappropriate considering how he’d left things with Cullen back in the office, but he couldn’t help it. He realized the threat of being found out was so terrifying that he would do almost _anything_ to avoid it—including not seeing Cullen again.

There was just one problem—Icis expected to hear from Cullen _today_. If Alistair didn’t deliver, she would likely go to Cullen’s office and demand answers. He wondered if Cullen would hold up under scrutiny.

Alistair resigned himself to thumbing his way back to Cullen’s office. He would tell Cullen that he needed to call Icis and when he was pressed, he’d explain that _he’d_ taken the pictures. That was a sure-fire way to get Cullen to hate him enough to never speak to him again. He’d be _done_. Gritting his teeth, he started walking toward a major road. He needed to handle this once and for all.

 

* * *

 

“Rutherford?” called Alistair from the hallway. He used Cullen’s surname to conceal their familiarity. He wondered if it was working.

Cullen opened the door slowly. His face was stern.

“There’s a matter we’ve got to discuss,” said Alistair quickly. He looked down the hallway nervously and balled his hands into fists at his sides. He knew it was ridiculous, but he felt like anyone who saw him in the hallway would instantly intuit their relationship. He wanted to get inside— _out of sight_.

“I’ve got nothing to say to you,” said Cullen quietly. His shoulders filled the doorway threateningly.

Alistair bit his lip, “Please…” he barely whispered.

Cullen sighed and rolled his eyes.

“It’s about the Chief…” said Alistair.

Cullen raised an eyebrow. “Fine... come in,” he stepped aside, “I only have a minute…”

Alistair wondered what that meant—was he planning to go somewhere?

When the door was shut, Cullen leaned against his desk and looked at Alistair appraisingly.

“I saw Chief Lavellan this morning,” began Alistair. He felt awkward standing so close to Cullen without touching him. He was in the habit of undressing Cullen before they ever had a chance to speak—it struck him as dysfunctional in the light of day.

“ _And_?” asked Cullen. He cocked his head to the side, exposing a small patch of skin at the nape of his neck.

Alistair shivered. “She _saw_ us together.”

Cullen gasped.

 _This_ was Alistair’s chance—the chance to explain that she _didn’t_ know what was going on; the chance to assuage Cullen’s fears. _But he didn’t do that._ He let silence fill the room until he saw a telltale bead of sweat appear at Cullen’s temple.

“Last week, she stopped by the office late at night…” he continued.

Cullen was breathing hard. His posture had changed—his chest caved in on itself.

“...and I was here…” Alistair considered for a split second. He had to make a choice—either tell Cullen the truth and agree to never see him again or tell him a lie—a lie that would make it possible to see him _more_.

“...and _she_ took the pictures.” Alistair lied. “I got the copies for you. I was trying to _protect_ you— _us_.”

Cullen’s expression softened. The intensity of the pain on his face was rivaled only by the depth of the compassion Alistair could see flickering in his eyes.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” said Alistair finally. He crossed to Cullen in two steps and wrapped his arms around his waist.

“I understand,” whispered Cullen. He cupped Alistair’s cheeks in his hands and kissed his forehead.

“I just didn’t know how to tell you that someone you _trusted_ betrayed you like that,” continued Alistair. The lie was taking on a life of its own now. He felt the words form in his mouth before he inspected them—as if they were _someone else’s_ thoughts.

Cullen pulled Alistair closer into his chest and breathed into him. “I love you,” he whispered.

Alistair brushed his lips against the branch of Cullen’s throat. _What have I done? Why am I doing this?_

“Al,” said Cullen suddenly pulling back, “what are we going to do now?”

“We’re going to have to make sure she doesn’t talk,” said Alistair darkly.

Cullen nodded hesitantly.

Alistair found himself fiddling with the edge of Cullen’s belt. He knew it was inappropriate to feel the way he did, but he couldn’t help it. He wanted Cullen so much it hurt.

“I love you,” said Alistair seriously. _It almost felt true._ Last night he had said what Cullen wanted to hear—but today he felt a little differently.

Cullen’s face cracked into a ridiculously handsome smile. Guilt coiled in Alistair’s gut.

“Then we’ll work this out—together,” said Cullen. His hands were still clasped gently behind Alistair’s neck.

The die was cast. Alistair knew he had made a mistake—one that would likely cost him. But something about Cullen made him reckless. Something he couldn’t name. Something he’d never even conceived before. Maybe—in his own messed up way—it was _love_?

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay on this chapter. The next one is already in the editing phase. :) Thanks for your continued support!


	13. The Syndicate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair, Cullen, Bella, and Morrigan craft a plan to get out of this mess with Hawke & Co.   
> Alistair reveals some of himself to Cullen.

**Cullen**

 

“I don’t see what any of this is going to accomplish,” said Cullen. He dropped his head into his palms and covered his eyes. This was the fourth straight hour of circular reasoning. He was exhausted.

“The _point_ ,” shouted Bella, “is that Hawke could come after us at any time. Ever since she came to town, she’s been _hunting_ us!” She narrowed her eyes pointedly at Alistair, “...and after your _rescue_ ,” she gestured dismissively at Cullen, “she’s angrier than ever.”

Alistair huffed and crossed his arms over his chest. Cullen wished he’d say something.

“Bell—” interjected Morrigan, “Alistair’s judgment notwithstanding, our goal is still the same as it has ever been—we need to get _rid_ of Hawke.” She leaned forward in her chair and tapped the edge of a cigarette against Cullen’s desk. Cullen watched the ashes fall into a heap on the floor.

“I don’t think we can do this with brute force,” said Alistair quietly. He was still leaning back in his chair. His hat was pulled low over his eyes.

“Speak for yourself,” joked Bella. She jabbed her elbow between Alistair’s ribs and he smirked from under the hat.

“What do you mean, Al?” asked Cullen, leaning forward into the desk between them.

Alistair looked up for the first time in hours. “We’re outgunned. Plain and simple.”

“Hawke’s operation is _huge_ ,” groused Bella.

“Right,” continued Alistair. Now that he was upright, Cullen could tell he was forming a plan. “But they don’t have the kinds of connections we have. Morrigan has her contacts, we have our allies, Bell… and Cullen has the Chief.”

Cullen bristled at the mention of Icis. He had sent a note to her office as requested last week, but he hadn’t heard anything back. Frankly, he didn’t _want_ to—not after what she’d done.

“So you’re saying we try to get all these people to work together?” scoffed Morrigan. “What could we possibly offer them in return?”

“We offer them the syndicate,” said Alistair.

Bella gasped. Morrigan stared at him through her cloud of smoke. Cullen swallowed hard.

“Bell—I know you thought it was the right choice ten years ago…” continued Alistair, “but I never wanted this. This is our chance to get _out_ —once and for all.”

Bella pursed her lips. Her eyes darted back and forth along the floor boards.

“I think it could work,” said Morrigan quietly. “It’s something everyone wants—even if it _is_ for different reasons.” She looked at each member in turn. “Icis will want to dismantle it from the inside out. My contacts will use each piece to continue to gather information. The Grey will take what’s left over for their freedom fighting.”

“Exactly,” said Alistair. “It’s the only thing that will work.”

There was an uncomfortable pause.

“Then I guess we’re set,” said Bella. She stood and grabbed her trench coat suddenly. “I need to get back—I’ll contact you tomorrow.”

Morrigan rose, “Let’s share a cab.”

Alistair stood up and started fiddling with his coat. Cullen _hoped_ it was an act, though. They hadn’t been together since the night Alistair told him about the photographs. He wasn’t sure what was going on between them, but something felt strained.

 

* * *

 

Cullen peered out his office window and watched as Bella and Morrigan got into a yellow cab. Its red taillights shone brightly against the dark asphalt of the alley. When they were out of sight, he crossed to the front of the desk where Alistair was standing.

“Are you staying?” he asked.

“Do you want me to?” asked Alistair. He smirked charmingly and wrapped his arm around the small of Cullen’s back.

Cullen blushed. He dragged Alistair forward into his arms.

“Let’s go upstairs,” said Alistair quietly. He was eyeing the open window with a nervous expression.

Cullen nodded.

 

* * *

 

In bed that night, Cullen couldn’t sleep. He couldn’t stop thinking about the plan--and about Icis specifically. He was angry at her—that was for sure—but he was also something else. _Ashamed_.

Alistair stirred slightly; Cullen turned onto his side to look at him. In the dim lighting of his dingy bedroom, Alistair’s face was illuminated. His tanned skin was dotted with freckles across his cheeks. Cullen marveled at how much he _liked_ Alistair—every part of him was attractive now, and becoming more so daily.

Cullen inched closer and tucked his chin into the hollow of Alistair’s neck. He gently kissed the soft skin and inhaled deeply—Alistair smelled like a mixture of soap and cigars. It wasn’t usually what Cullen would call a _pleasant_ smell, but he drank it in nevertheless.

“Hi,” mumbled Alistair. He didn’t open his eyes, but he smiled. “Can’t sleep?”

Cullen shook his head. His lips brushed against Alistair’s cheek.

“What’s wrong?” asked Alistair. He blinked through the darkness.

Cullen rolled and hovered over Alistair—their lips just an inch apart. “I’m just ruminating…” he whispered.

Alistair raised an eyebrow and settled himself beneath Cullen’s heavy chest. His hands ran absently over Cullen’s ribs.

“If we dismantle the syndicate,” began Cullen tentatively, “what will you _do_?”

Alistair exhaled audibly and searched the corners of the room with his eyes. “I won’t stay _here_ —that’s for sure.”

Cullen felt a stab of nervousness in his gut. He instinctively let more of his weight fall onto Alistair’s torso.

Alistair smirked, “I didn’t say I would go _alone_.”

Cullen’s stomach was filled with butterflies.

“Where would you want to go?” asked Alistair. One of his hands had found its way to the back of Cullen’s neck and was kneading the skin.

“Somewhere warm.” Cullen dropped his head onto Alistair’s chest and closed his eyes. “Imagine an ocean—soft waves over white sand…”

Alistair hummed approval.

“Breezy days and balmy nights,” continued Cullen. “...and just _us_ …”

Alistair kissed the top of Cullen’s head. “Perfect.”

They were quiet for a while. Cullen listened to Alistair’s heartbeat through the skin of his chest.

“Of course,” Cullen spoke quietly, “there isn’t a place like that where _we_ could go… is there?”

Alistair sighed, “Well, maybe not a beach… but we could live in the countryside somewhere…”

“And never invite anyone to see us…” complained Cullen.

Alistair almost laughed, “don’t be such a wet blanket… not everyone feels like that… Morrigan hasn’t turned on us yet.”

Cullen picked up his head and looked at Alistair sharply, “What did you say?”

“Morrigan—she’s _fine_ ,” repeated Alistair.

“What does she know?” Cullen felt panicked. He backed up until he was kneeling at the bottom of the bed.

“Nothing _concrete_ ,” said Alistair. He sounded annoyed. “But she picked us up from that _place_ …remember?”

Cullen stood suddenly and started pacing.

“Come _on_ …” whined Alistair. “She’s fine...nothing has happened.”

“To _you_ maybe…” snapped Cullen. “She’s not going to implicate the father of her child…”

Cullen knew he struck a nerve from the look on Alistair’s face.

“Leave Kieran out of this,” said Alistair coldly. He sat up against the headboard and pulled the blankets in tight around his waist.

“So _that’s_ where we draw the line?” called Cullen. “We can sneak around— _fuck_ whenever we’re alone… but maker-forbid we should actually _communicate_. I don’t know a damn thing about you.” He roughly pawed through the darkness, looking for his pants.

“Damn it, Rutherford,” yelled Alistair.

Cullen seethed—using his last name seemed like such an obvious tactic to keep him at a distance.

“I’m leaving,” said Cullen.

“It’s two in the morning, where are you going to go?” asked Alistair.

Cullen didn’t have a plan, but he continued buttoning his shirt anyway.

“ _Cullen_ ,” Alistair’s tone was deliberate. “Haven’t we already walked out on each other enough?” He let the blankets fall into a heap and crawled to the edge of the bed. “I’ll tell you what you want to know…” he reached for Cullen’s hands.

Cullen considered. Upon inspection of his feelings, he wasn’t actually _angry_ —he was hurt. He was feeling rejected and stressed and scared. Most of all, he was feeling like Alistair was someone he _couldn’t_ let go of. The weakness of that position terrified him.

“Please, Cullen…” repeated Alistair.

Cullen let his shoulders slump and sat at the foot of the bed. “Tell me.”

Alistair swung his legs off the edge of the bed, mirroring Cullen’s posture, and filled his lungs with air. “When Morrigan first started traveling with us, none of us knew what her intentions were…”

Cullen nodded cautiously.

“...even _she_ didn’t,” he added. His mouth turned up—almost an ironic smile. “She grew up in a very strange situation… her mother owned a _very_ _seedy establishment_ , if you catch my drift.” Alistair raised a questioning eyebrow.

Cullen thought he understood.

“By the time that Bella and I were ready to take over the syndicate, it became clear that Morrigan’s mother was planning to use her for _other purposes_ ,” continued Alistair. “...getting pregnant was the only way she could avoid it and still stay with us to help.”

Cullen’s eyes widened.

“...we _needed_ her—we never would have been able to stage the takeover without her help… so… I guess I did it for Bella.”

“But weren’t you together at the time?” asked Cullen. Saying it out loud made him stiffen with jealousy.

“Yeah… that’s why the whole thing was so strained…” answered Alistair. “And then afterwards, Morrigan vanished—just took off into the night. I wanted to find her—to find Kieran—but I never could.”

“So what changed?” asked Cullen. “Why was it safe for Morrigan to reveal herself now?”

“I don’t know…” Alistair looked at the floor darkly and swallowed. “Cullen…” he began again, softer this time, “I just want to get to know my son… that’s all.”

Cullen put a hand on Alistair’s knee.

“...and Morrigan thinks you’re _dangerous_ … she warned me about you.”

Cullen was surprised by that. If anything, he thought _Morrigan_ was the dangerous one.

“I told her I’d stop _this_ ,” said Alistair. He looked at the space between them pointedly.

“Are you going to?” asked Cullen. He tried not to sound defensive.

“I thought I was…” said Alistair. He pulled the blanket around his shoulders and hugged it around the back of Cullen’s neck. Inside the cocoon, Alistair’s voice sounded softer and sweeter. “...but I couldn’t—I _can’t_.”

Cullen gaped.

“I didn’t know I was going to fall in love with you,” said Alistair.

Cullen kissed him hard.

“But if we get this whole thing sorted,” said Alistair hopefully, “I think I have a chance of being able to fix everything—with Morrigan, with Kieran… and with _you_.”

Cullen desperately wanted to believe him.

“So now that we’ve gone through that torturous bit of history,” whispered Alistair, “will you please take off this _ridiculous_ clothing and come back to bed?” His eyes sparkled.

Cullen laughed and began unbuttoning his shirt.

           

           


	14. Blackmail

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Bella continue with their plan to turn the syndicate into a bulwark against Hawke & Co. Unfortunately, she has some ammunition of her own.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with me, lovely followers. I've been caught up with my other projects... but this story isn't over yet. :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: some homophobic language and themes in this chapter. The 40s and 50s were a terrible time... :(

**A Few Weeks Later**

**Alistair**

 

* * *

 

Jazz wafted out into the street as Alistair waited. He leaned against a lamppost and tried to look inconspicuous. The waiting was the hardest part.

“Hey,” called Bella. She was suddenly right beside him. “Are you ready?”

He watched her jaw tighten. She wasn’t the nervous type—it was unusual to see her show any sign of weakness.

“Yeah, I’m ready,” he answered. He knew she needed support tonight. After making deals with The Grey, Morrigan’s associates, and Chief Lavellan, she was harried.

“Okay,” she lit a cigarette between them and held the first drag in longer than seemed possible. “When Hawke shows up, just keep your cool. Don’t do anything rash…”

“Bella,” he smirked, “are you implying that _I’m_ a hothead?”

They both laughed.

As the laughter faded, Alistair spotted Hawke’s car. She drove a boat of a Cadillac in a baby blue color—unmistakable. He stiffened against the lamppost and put his hands in his pockets.

“Here we go…” said Bella.

Hawke looked both ways before crossing the street. She appeared to be alone. It was what they had agreed upon, but Alistair hadn’t believed she’d actually follow through. Maybe this was going to be easier than he thought.

“Al,” she nodded, “Bella…”

“Hi Hawke,” said Alistair. The last time he saw her they’d hugged, but today things were a little different.

“Let’s cut to the chase,” said Bella. Her voice was soft, but definite. “You want us gone…”

Hawke raised an eyebrow.

“...we’ve talked…” continued Bella. “And we want that too… we’re done with the syndicate.”

Hawke dropped the cigarette she was lighting.

“...but this is our _home_ ,” said Bella seriously. “We can’t have you tearing it apart from the inside out…”

Hawke’s eyes narrowed.

“So we’ve put some plans in place,” Bella almost faltered, but she looked at Alistair and seemed to regain her strength. “To keep you in check.”

Hawke’s posture changed—she looked like she was preparing for a fight. “You think you can stop me from taking over this town? You and what army?” she laughed darkly.

Alistair spoke up, “We’ve set it up so that you can continue here, Hawke,” he stepped closer to her, “...but if you take one step over the line, you’ll have the Chief of Police, Morrigan’s affiliates, and The Grey breathing down your neck faster than this,” he snapped his fingers two inches in front of her nose.

Hawke blinked.

Bella’s mouth was curling into a pleasant sneer, “So… like I said… we’re _out_ —but you’re going to see us around…”

Hawke pursed her lips together—the red lipstick a dark contrast to the pale skin of her cheeks. For a second, Alistair thought they’d won.

“Just one thing, Al…” she looked directly at him, ignoring Bella. “The next time you decide to take some pictures for _insurance_ —or maybe posterity?” she laughed, “make sure you use someone who isn’t on _my_ payroll.”

From behind her back, she pulled a small manila envelope. His heart sank.

Bella grabbed the envelope before Alistair could stop her. She flipped through the photographs quickly, her eyes opening fractionally wider with each print.

Alistair didn’t look up.

“Hawke,” said Bella seriously, “I don’t see how this changes anything…”

Alistair knew Bella well enough to know she was lying—she could see the writing on the wall. This blackmail would ruin the syndicate. Its enemies would have all the fuel they needed to demand it be dismantled before it ever had a chance to be taken over by new leadership.

“You can try to play it that way, Bella… see how far it gets you.” Hawke smirked, “so thanks, but no thanks, Al…” she let smoke drift between them. “I’ll be seeing you…”

 

* * *

 

Alistair fiddled with the cuff of his sleeve until they were again alone on the street.

“Al,” said Bella quietly, “what were you thinking?”

Alistair shrugged.

“I’m not judging—per se…” she rolled her eyes, “but you left photographic evidence? _On purpose_?”

“It seemed like a way to stay safe at the time…” mumbled Alistair. “The whole thing just started out so tumultuously and before I knew it we were— _together_ …”

Bella’s expression dripped with disgust.

Alistair was starting to sweat at the edge of his collar. “Anyway… I thought I might need to make a quick getaway from him… but then…” he trailed off.

“Then what?” snapped Bella.

“Then we fell—I…” he couldn’t say it. _They were in love_.

Bella rolled her eyes, “Well, you know this means we’re _ruined_ , don’t you?”

Alistair looked down in contrition.

“I mean… The Grey isn’t going to touch your organization with a ten foot pole now…” she nearly yelled. “...and the Chief? Forget it…” she laughed bitterly.

“Why?” asked Alistair.

Bella raised her eyebrows, “ _Why_? Because they’re not going to get in bed with some queer, Al.”

The word hit him hard. He hadn’t labeled himself at all—he’d just been a person… who loved someone else… He’d never felt so far away from her as he did in this moment—as if she’d dropped a thick wall between them.

“They’ll say it speaks to your ‘moral character,’ or that you can’t have possibly run the syndicate properly…” she sighed and brushed a palm across her forehead. “...basically, it will be bad for business and they won’t _want_ that.”

Alistair swallowed hard. “So what I should I do?”

Bella looked at him without speaking for a long time.

“There’s only one thing to do…” answered Bella finally. “Run.”

“Run?” he parroted.

Bella nodded. “Get out of the syndicate—disavow any connection,” she paused. “We’ll wait a month or two and then get the partners back on board… we’ll say you got sick or _died_ or something…”

“It would be better for me to be infirm or _dead_ than—than...” he hesitated; he couldn’t say it.

“— _Anything_ would be better than that.” Bella lit another cigarette—she was smoking them faster than he had ever seen.

Alistair felt like hitting something and crying at the same time.

“This is a huge mess, Al…” muttered Bella. She was pacing nervously along the edge of the sidewalk. “Go home. I’m going to call Morrigan and try to fix this…”

There was no arguing. He nodded and turned to leave.

 

* * *

 

He didn’t go home, though. He found himself climbing the stairs to that dingy little office he’d grown to love. When he swung the door open, Cullen was sitting behind the desk, pouring himself a drink.

“Hey, Al,” said Cullen. He smiled brightly and crossed the desk.

“Hi,” said Alistair. He tried to smile, but his face wouldn’t do it.

Cullen encircled his waist with his arms and leaned in to look into Alistair’s face. “What’s the matter?” he asked skeptically.

“We have to leave— _tonight_ ,” said Alistair.

Cullen’s eyes widened. “ _Why_?”

“Because I ruined everything,” said Alistair miserably. He rested his chin on Cullen’s shoulder and leaned into him. He was afraid this was going to be one of their last tender moments. He wanted it to last as long as possible.

Cullen didn’t say anything. He just ran his hands up and down Alistair’s back and waited. Alistair noticed how good Cullen was at waiting.

“I took the pictures,” admitted Alistair. He blurted it out without giving himself a chance to rethink it. It was the truth or nothing.

“What?” asked Cullen. He pulled away from Alistair warily, but his left palm was still anchored on Alistair’s hip.

“I hired someone to take them,” Alistair hung his head in defeat. “I wanted insurance in case you tried to cross me…”

Cullen backed up until he could lean against the desk. He looked pale and he was breathing shallowly.

Alistair followed him, leaning between Cullen’s knees and craning to look him in the eye. “But then… when I realized what this was…” he paused, putting a hand on Cullen’s cheek. “I regretted it—and I blamed it on the Chief…”

“You were going to blackmail me?” asked Cullen quietly. His voice resounded with a sternness that Alistair hadn’t heard before.

“...yes,” answered Alistair slowly. “But now I just want to get out of here— _with_ you.”

“Why tell me this now?” asked Cullen. He was trying to stand, but Alistair had him trapped against the desk.

This was the part Alistair didn’t want to say, “...because Hawke got her hands on the prints.”

Cullen’s temper flared, “Hawke has pictures of…” he finally managed to break away from Alistair and pace around the room, “...of me? Of _us_?”

Alistair turned and slumped his shoulders submissively. “Yes… and she’s using them to ruin our plan—Bella says we have no chance of giving the syndicate to The Grey now…” He sighed, “at least… not while I’m attached to it…”

Cullen squinted.

“So I need to leave—I want you to come with me,” Alistair’s voice was pleading.

Cullen huffed, “This is insane—you seduce me, spy on me, _lie_ to me, and now you want me to run away with you?” his voice rose high enough that Alistair winced.

“Please, Cullen…” Alistair crossed the room in two steps and grabbed both sides of Cullen’s face. “I _love_ you.”

“How could I _ever_ trust you again?” scoffed Cullen.

Alistair shrugged. “I’ll do _anything_ , just name it.”

“Al,” Cullen pulled his face away and walked to look out the window. “This isn’t the kind of thing you can just fix.”

Alistair wasn’t ready to give up yet. “Cullen,” he wrapped his arms around him from the back. “I was an ass—a real cad.” He pulled his chest tight against Cullen’s back. “But I never knew anything until I met you…” He breathed against Cullen’s neck and nuzzled the edge of his ear. “You’ve changed me,” he whispered.

Cullen sighed. His chest caved in, his weight dropping into Alistair’s arms. “Where would we go?” he asked.

Alistair didn’t let himself smile—not yet. Instead, he leaned his face closer to Cullen’s and stared out the window with him. “Anywhere. You pick.”

Cullen leaned his head against Alistair’s and closed his eyes. “I wish I didn’t love you.” He paused. “But I _do_.”


	15. Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is it... the end. 
> 
> It took me a really long time to figure out how this should end... but a lot of things from the forties and fifties actually had very sappy endings... so this has a sappy ending. I hope you guys like it. :)

**Cullen**

“Well, I guess that’s it, then,” said Alistair.

Cullen surveyed the empty bedroom and nodded. “I guess so…”

Alistair picked up one heavy suitcase in each hand and started toward the stairs.

Cullen didn’t move, though. His feet felt glued to the floor. It hadn’t been a very _nice_ place to live—it hadn’t been a very good office either, but damn it, it was _his_. And now, he was running from it, without any warning, in the middle of the night.

“Are you coming?” asked Alistair.

Cullen nodded, but he didn’t turn to look. “I just need a second…” he mumbled.

Alistair dropped the bags at the top of the stairs. His arms were around Cullen’s waist a second later. Cullen leaned into him and closed his eyes.

“It’s _just_ …” Cullen hesitated. “I know this place is a dump… but it feels strange leaving it.”

Alistair turned Cullen by the shoulders until they were face to face. “I understand…” He kissed his cheek. “Maybe you could tell me some of the memories… then we could both carry them—it might make this place permanent in our minds.”

Cullen smirked. “Okay…” He pulled Alistair toward the mattress—now bare. As they sat on the edge, the springs squeaked. “Remember that noise?”

“Do I ever…” Alistair rolled his eyes. “I thought we were going to wake the whole street the other night…”

Cullen laughed, “it’s a _memory_ , all right…”

Alistair interlaced his fingers between Cullen’s, “okay… what else?”

“Well…” said Cullen, looking around the room. “When I first decided I needed to get _clean_ … the pills, I mean…” he looked up at Alistair for reassurance.

Alistair nodded and smiled.

“...I built that dresser,” he pointed across the room.

“You did?” asked Alistair. “I’m impressed—this is _solid_.” He crossed the room in two steps and opened the top drawer appraisingly. “When we get to our new place, maybe you could build us some furniture…” He returned to Cullen’s side. “...like, maybe a bed that _doesn’t_ squeak…”

They both laughed.

“I guess memories don’t really live in _places_ , do they?” asked Cullen rhetorically.

Alistair shook his head. “They live in _here_ ,” he laid his hand protectively over Cullen’s chest.

“I love you,” said Cullen, suddenly. It was amazing. He couldn’t have loved Alistair more if he tried, despite the lies, despite the stress, despite the fights…

“Love you too,” whispered Alistair. He leaned in to plant kisses along Cullen’s jaw. “Are you ready now?” he asked; his mouth was buried in the skin of Cullen’s neck.

“Yes,” said Cullen, standing. “Let’s go.”

 

Downstairs, Cullen looked through his desk drawers one more time, just to make sure he hadn’t left anything important behind. In the bottom right one he found a bit of thread—the same thread he’d used to suture Alistair’s arm that first day.

“Do you remember this?” asked Cullen, smiling.

Alistair grimaced. “I still have nightmares—I’m lucky I didn’t get some infection.”

Cullen smirked. “I thought I did a rather good job patching you up.”

Alistair smirked. “I guess I didn't _die_ … That's the important part… What do you think Icis was thinking? Why did she shoot me?”

“It was a diversion,” said Cullen. “Plain and simple. She didn't care about _you_ at all—it was always about getting to Bella.”

Alistair opened his mouth to argue, but the door blew open behind him and they both turned.

“Just where do you think _you’re_ going?” asked Morrigan. Her collar was up high around her neck, shrouding her mouth, but Cullen could tell she _wasn’t_ smiling.

“What’s going on, Morrigan?” asked Alistair. He stepped closer to her than Cullen would have of his own volition.

“You’ve made a mess of everything,” she said seriously, “but that doesn’t mean you get to leave.” She slid her coat off her shoulders and threw it across a chair. “We’re not going to stay here and clean up after you.”

Alistair rolled his eyes.

“What do you mean?” Cullen asked. He debated internally about whether or not to grab Alistair’s hand. He _wanted_ to—it would have _calmed_ him—but he couldn’t seem to do it. His arm was suddenly inoperable.

Morrigan bristled, “I’m going after Hawke. And you two are coming with me.”

“For what purpose?” asked Alistair impudently.

She rolled her eyes, “Al, this is our _home_ —whether or not the syndicate is here—we’re not giving it up without a fight.”

Alistair stared at her unblinkingly. Cullen thought about stepping between them, but he didn’t. He still felt frozen.

Morrigan turned slightly so that she was in a beam of light from the streetlamp outside. Cullen almost gasped. Her eyes were slightly glassy.

“Al,” she cleared her throat. Her voice was raspy—threatening to break. “She has Kieran.”

Cullen watched the muscles of Alistair’s neck tense. His freckly skin flushed so quickly, he looked like he was about to have a stroke. This time Cullen _moved_ —he couldn’t help it. His arm was under Alistair’s shoulders before he even knew he’d taken a step toward him. Alistair’s weight fell into him. He felt like he was the only thing holding him up.

“Where _is_ he?” asked Alistair finally.

“In the factory district,” she answered.

“Let’s go.” He disentangled from Cullen’s arm and grabbed his hat without looking back.

 

* * *

 

The buildings in this section of the city were dilapidated, but imposing. They towered higher than in other districts, but seemed to be decaying at twice the speed. Cullen morosely imagined them falling onto the car and stopping them before they ever reached Kieran.

He leaned forward to whisper in Alistair’s right ear. “Are you okay?”

Alistair shivered slightly, but turned his head so they were nose to nose. “I _will_ be… when we find him.”

Morrigan glanced at them sideways from the driver’s seat. Cullen knew she must be stressed, but she didn’t let an iota of it show on her face.

“It’s amazing,” said Alistair seriously, “how much I can _love_ someone I’ve ever met…” He pulled the brim of his hat low over his eyes, but Cullen knew he was on the edge of losing it. His shoulders shook slightly under Cullen’s fingertips.

“We’ll find him,” soothed Cullen.

“...and we’re going to _kill_ her when we do,” said Morrigan.

Cullen looked at her wide-eyed. She was absolutely serious—she was _sure_.

 

She let the car roll to a stop in front of a factory Cullen knew had been abandoned for decades. In one of the upper windows he saw a glint of a flashlight.

“Ready?” she asked. She cocked her handgun and stabbed a stilleto out the driver’s side door. Cullen followed from the back seat. He tried not to let the door slam—the less noise the better.

Alistair looked grey. He pulled a gun out of his holster and jolted his head to the side for them to follow him up the fire escape.

“Stop right there!” called one of Hawke’s goons.

Suddenly, there were bullets whizzing past Cullen’s ears through the window. He ducked out of the way and clung to the fire escape to keep from falling. They were already three stories up. They couldn’t turn back now.

“Go!” called Morrigan, “we’ll cover you.” She pressed herself against the side of the building next to Cullen and motioned for Alistair to take a more direct approach.

The next few moments passed in a blur. Cullen turned and shot blindly into the window as Alistair jumped its frame and rolled into the center of the room behind some equipment. Morrigan stood shoulder to shoulder with Cullen and sprayed stray bullets into the room. In the strobing of the firefight, Cullen saw the scene unfold in stuttering bursts. Hawke’s people tried to jump to safety—some made it, others didn’t. Cullen plugged one in the head. He had to look away—blood squirted out from her in all directions, making rivers across the floor. He hadn’t seen anything so violent close up in his whole life—and times were _dark_ in Denerim.

“Get down!” yelled Morrigan. She sounded so far away—Cullen could barely hear her over the din, but he followed her across the windowsill and crouched. Bullets sprayed out over them from all directions. Cullen’s vision was starting to blur. He couldn’t understand _why_ until he looked down at his gut—he was bleeding profusely through his shirt.

Before he lost consciousness, he heard Morrigan and Alistair shouting his name and felt someone dragging him. After that, everything went black.

 

* * *

 

In these dark times, Cullen missed a lot of things. He missed sunshine. He missed nature. Most of all, he missed birds. Before he came to the big city to make a name for himself—before he _ever_ wanted to be a cop—he used to want to own a farm. His childhood home had been far away in the countryside. He spent his days cleaning horse stalls and carrying hay bales. He never _imagined_ a place like Denerim—he especially did not imagine that he wouldn’t wake up to the sound of birds. Even _pigeons_ didn’t make it to Denerim.

Only, _this morning_ , he heard them—chirping, singing, whistling.

Cullen opened his eyes cautiously. A bright beam of sunlight made him blink. He managed to sit up with some effort. His side hurt. Upon examination, it had been bandaged expertly. He didn’t seem to have a shirt. He looked around the room, trying to figure out where he was. The windows were framed in light linen curtains, blowing gently in a salty breeze. This was no place he’d _ever_ been before.

Hesitantly, he dropped his feet over the edge of the bed and stood. Finding that he _could_ stand was a relief. On the other side of the door, he heard someone laugh. Gingerly, he crossed to it and turned the knob.

“Cullen!” called Alistair. “I wanted to be there when you woke up!” he smiled gently. He wasn’t wearing a shirt either. His shoulders had even more freckles than usual—a hint of a tan skimmed the upper edges of his chest.

Cullen gripped the edge of a countertop to steady himself. Upon inspection, he was standing in the kitchen of a beach house. Beyond the table, a stretch of white sand extended out as far as he could see. Palm trees framed the attached porch.

“Where am I?” asked Cullen.

Alistair stood from the table and wrapped an arm under his shoulders, guiding him to a chair. “In _paradise_ ,” he said smugly.

“But I don’t—” Cullen squinted. He was so confused.

“There’s a _lot_ I need to tell you…” said Alistair, sitting next to him. “But could I convince you to eat something first? Bella made breakfast.”

“ _Bella’s_ here?” asked Cullen. He started to stand up again, but Alistair put an arm on his shoulder to stop him.

“ _Everyone’s_ here,” said Alistair.

Just then, Morrigan appeared from the hallway opposite the room Cullen woke up in.

“Morning, boys,” she said quickly, “Nice to see _you_ up and around.” She smirked. It was as close as Cullen had ever seen her to a smile.

“Let me get you some eggs, at least,” suggested Alistair.

“No,” said Cullen emphatically. “I am not eating _anything_ until you tell me what’s going on.”

Alistair rolled his eyes, but smiled eventually. “Well… it all comes down to Chief Lavellan…”

Cullen shivered. He hadn’t thought about her since he discovered she _hadn’t_ actually been preparing to blackmail him.

“She and Bella secretly set the whole thing up,” explained Alistair. “ _We_ ,” he looked at Morrigan sourly, “didn’t know, of course. We didn’t expect they would use our _son_ as bait.”

Morrigan poured herself a drink and sat on the other side of the table. “We certainly didn’t. Of course _they_ didn’t either—not _really_.”

Cullen’s head was pounding. “ _What_?”

Alistair laughed, “They didn’t _actually_ use Kieran—he wasn’t even there… in the warehouse. That was just a way to get _us_ there.”

“Kieran was with Bella at the bar the whole time,” added Morrigan.

“Oh…” mumbled Cullen. It seemed like he’d been shot for no reason.

“But anyway,” continued Alistair, “while Hawke was busy dealing with us, the Chief and the entire police force came in the back and _arrested_ them before they had a chance to escape.”

“And because they were actively attacking us at the time,” said Morrigan, “especially since they’d just _shot_ you,” she paused to look at Cullen’s side. “The Chief finally had something she could hold them on.”

“They’ve been _indicted_!” said Alistair.

Cullen felt himself smile. This was so different than anything he could have imagined. So different than his experience of _life_.

“So where _are_ we?” he asked.

“In Rivain,” answered Morrigan.

“What?” asked Cullen, wide eyed. “We traveled hundreds of miles while I was unconscious?”

Morrigan smirked. “I have _people_ for that sort of thing…”

Cullen shivered. He didn’t want to know what that meant. “So where are Bella and Icis now?”

“Icis is still in Denerim—she’s _determined_ to clean that place up,” answered Alistair. “Bella’s building sandcastles with Kieran.” He stared out the window and smiled.

“I’m going to join them,” said Morrigan. She dropped her robe to reveal a red swimsuit. With a nod, she put on her sunglasses and left.

“I’m so relieved you’re okay,” said Alistair, once they were alone. He wrapped his hands around the backs of Cullen’s knees and smiled gently. “What do you feel like?”

“A little confused… but I’ll manage,” smiled Cullen. “How long are we going to stay here?”

“As long as we want,” answered Alistair. He leaned in to kiss Cullen’s cheek. “We have no responsibilities. No deadlines. No crime families breathing down our necks.” He kissed him again, full on the mouth—deeper and harder than Cullen was expecting.

“But…” Cullen caught his breath, “I thought we couldn’t _do_ this… I thought…” He remembered their fight a few weeks earlier. Alistair had been so adamant about there being no place in Thedas they could go _together_. He was afraid to hope.

Alistair cocked his head to the side. “I _love_ you… I’ve worked it out.”

Cullen pursed his lips.

“Morrigan and Bella are going to stay here with us for a while…” Alistair explained. “It’s a little silly… but they’ll legitimize us… and Kieran too.”

Cullen frowned, “It shouldn’t have to be that way…”

“I know, Love,” said Alistair. He cupped Cullen’s cheeks in his palms and sighed. “But at least we’re _together_ —and we’re okay.”

Cullen managed a smile. This _was_ the most beautiful place he’d even been in his whole life. He stood and walked out onto the back porch. It was just three feet of wooden planks before the sand enveloped its edges.

“...and we _love_ each other,” said Cullen.

Alistair leaned his head on Cullen’s shoulder and sighed. “We _do_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone who believed in this little story. I neglected it for long stretches while I worked on my other things, but you guys were awesome through it all. :) If you ever have questions or suggestions or writing prompts or you'd just like to flail about Cullen/Alistair... please send me a message. @ponticle on tumblr and twitter. :) <3


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